The Draft
by Faultystars1357
Summary: But, soon after it started they began to draft. Hundreds and thousands of men and woman were brought to the recruiting stations. Physicals and Medicals Transcripts were filled and exchanged and people made it in and other didn't. If you got a letter with the Government's seal, you knew your eligible boy or girl was leaving to go. Dick Grayson never expected to get that letter. AU
1. The Draft

**Title: The Draft **

**Note: Please not that this story is an AU. Ages and times have been mixed up but aren't necessarily clarified in the story, if you want an explanation on the dates (Years, Days, Months, etc) you can a) leave a review and ask or b) send me a PM. The concept in this AU can and should be completed in about 4 to 5 very long chapters. There will be VERY SLOW updates, due to my being in school and extra-curricular activities. **

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><p>It wasn't long after the war started that they began the drafting. Stations all around the United States began recruiting. Old World War II posters and signs for War Bonds began popping up. Companies stopped production of consumer goods and began making weapons. The men went off to fight, the woman stayed back and made the machines.<p>

No one was really sure what started it, they knew for sure that for once it wasn't aliens. Space had seemed particularly quiet at the time and for about a year with no major excitements happening, people pushed the thought of aliens and invasions from their minds and turned to coffee and the internet. Politics had, in the past decade, become something of a disinterest to most people. The cared little for the bills and legislation that would pass quietly through their Government. For two years, nothing happened. Heroes stopped most crime, kept the streets and the world orderly and did what they meant to do.

Heroes are human, though. And what human can single-handedly prevent a war?

After those two years a man by the name of Lukas Weisheit, a Democratic Presidential Candidate for 2016. He was a younger man, about 25 years old and was up and running with his campaign. The people loved him, they went wild. The Media, while overall kind toward the candidate, found him to be a charming and sly young man. Full of new ideas and ready for action, Lukas Weisheit was ready to jump into office after the National Convention.

The news casters called him "America's Golden Boy!" and said he was the "Best thing since Reagan." And even though he was a Democrat, many people of the opposite party found his ideals and values to be solid and true. It was when the assassination of Lukas was attempted that the uproar began. People began to march through the streets, calling out to the military and the Justice League to find the assassin and get rid of him.

It wasn't just around the United States either. Lukas' foreign policy was accepted in many other countries and with the Election going to happen, everyone had turned to stare at American's door, waiting to see how the next more powerful man would be. Worldwide outcry came when the attempt took place.

Weisheit was with his wife and their infant daughter, going to a meeting with Fox News, when a gun shot rang through the air on that Sunday morning. The Justice League declared itself neutral to the event, but stated "Our members that would like to investigate may do so, however the investigation itself cannot and will not be linked to the Justice League itself."

About two months later, after the attempt, it was found that the Triad, the Chinese Mob in America, had been hired by a Russian group called Укусы палец, which was led by a man called Peter the Biter. The only information anyone had on him was that his mother was an English-born citizen and his father was Russian. Peter himself was raised in England until the age of five, when he moved to Russia with his parents. He was, apparently, a prominent Shakespeare fan.

The War between the Russian Укусы палец Group and the American government began, sometime, around July of 2016. Germany, France and Italy were brought in in October. In November, Japan and China were hurting from trade and joined in on Russia's side.

Years later, when it was done and written in the history books, it was The War of the Biter.

But, soon after it started they began to draft. Hundreds and thousands of men were brought to the recruiting stations. Physicals and Medicals Transcripts were done and exchanged and people made it in and some didn't.

If you got a letter with the Government's seal, you knew your eligible boy or girl was leaving to go. The nation got in shape.

Gotham was suddenly blooming with life because of the War of the Biter. Old, abandoned factories were reopened and remodeled. They were checked and rechecked and soon moved into production. The city burst forward, bringing new weaponry with Wayne Industries and Lex Corp. Despite the war, life was almost good. People were buying bonds, saving and were collecting trash on the streets for good use. It was cleaner and seemingly safer and the people liked it almost.

It wasn't until you got one of those letters that things went downhill. When Bruce Wayne got one of the letters, he was confused. It was addressed to him, even though he was most certainly out of the age range they wanted, and even though the only people really living at the Manor were him, Alfred and Damian, he felt confusion as to why it was there.

Later, he found that setting it on the table wasn't a good idea.

"Alfred, can you do me a favor and see why we got a drafting letter?"

It took Alfred a moment to look up. Bruce watched him hesitate slightly with the tea, as if the question had surprised him. Damian, who was quiet and was staring harshly at the letter, turned and looked to Bruce with wide eyes filled with disbelief.

"Have you opened it sir?" Alfred asked, turning around with a shaky smile on his face. Bruce stared at him incredulously, taking the tea when the elder man offered it. He could still feel Damian's stare on his side, but he ignored it as he watched Alfred.

"No, I figured it was a mistake." Bruce turned to look at Damian. "I don't see why it wouldn't be a mistake. There's no one here to draft for the war. I'm busy making productions for it anyway," he paused there for a moment, "not that I'm fond of it, but I can't deny they need it."

He watched as Damian and Alfred exchanged looks. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Perhaps," Alfred cut in quickly, "you should open the letter. It is addressed to you sir, better to see it's a mistake than it is to assume it's one."

Bruce sat there with his steaming cup of tea that morning in the kitchen, staring at the letter. Throughout breakfast, he didn't touch it. He sat there while Alfred did the dishes and went to go clean the house. Damian had left for school, deciding that whatever he'd been worried enough about before, wasn't important now. Bruce sat there in silence and slowly reached for the letter. It was a mistake, of course, it had to be. Tim and Jason were barely old enough to go battle, they wouldn't want them. And officially, Jason didn't exist anymore (dying seemed to do that to people). And Dick, Bruce's eldest son, was a police officer. The only reason any of them had any affiliation with the war would be because of Wayne mass producing weaponry to aid it.

He ripped the letter open and slowly pulled out a piece of heavy parchment. On it was the Government seal with the eagle. He flipped it open, quietly, and read through the lines. When it was finished, he read it again and then stared at it.

"Master Grayson has yet to change his primary address, I'm afraid."

"Alfred," Bruce began slowly, "I didn't even notice you were there."

Alfred only sighed and walked around to sit opposite of him. "My assumptions were correct, I assume?"

"They drafted him," Bruce sighed deeply. "I don't know whether I should call Dick up and tell him over the phone or call him here. Two years on the Russian front, it's saying. No other option. He has to report to a recruiter by Monday." It was Wednesday now. That gave him five days.

Alfred almost dropped the platter he had grabbed to clean; he was staring at Bruce with wide eyes. "Two years, sir?"

Bruce nodded grimly, slowly. "I'll… call him here. That's probably the best thing." He stood up and pushed his empty coffee cup away from himself and turned to walk out of the kitchen.

"Master Bruce?"

The younger man turned to look at the butler. Alfred sat with his back straight, his hands holding the silver platter tightly, though they were shaking slightly. "Be kind, please."

Bruce paused at the door, his hand on the frame. He nodded in reply, and then turned to walk out. Thinking back, he wasn't surprised Dick had a) forgotten to change his address and b) that Dick was drafted in the first place. The twenty-four year old was strong and young and fresh meat, just the age that they wanted. His job as Nightwing would help on the field of course, and he was more physically fit then most of the men his age out there.

Dick worked as an Officer in the Blüdhaven Police Department, a rookie just out of the streets and looking to do some good in that god-forsaken city. The city had been, back in the early 1600s, an old fishing village and had kept that up until the Industrial Revolution when iron and steel became the thing. Next to Baltimore and Philadelphia, Blüdhaven was right up there in producing steel. And, of course, Steel City who was fourth in production. When the War started, the city, like Gotham, had reeled out its old steel factories and began production again. Half of the modern steel production now came from Blüdhaven and Philadelphia. And like Gotham, it was beaming with new life.

That didn't stop the corrupt cops (more than half of the department) from doing what they wanted, but with after the elections for a new Mayor and the citizens new hope in the city (funny how a war could make people hope more) it seemed they were slowly filtering them out. Even though Dick was often angry with him, Bruce got updates on what they were doing to clean out the bad people and put some good ones in.

"We need more people like Mr. Weisheit," Dick had told him once over the phone. "This city isn't gonna get any better if they put more people like the ones they had before into office."

Bruce agreed, for the most part. He was thinking of opening another plant in Blüdhaven, just to provide more jobs and opportunities. He knew that Dick would appreciate it; Blüdhaven was his city, but Dick was going to war now. Drafting was sick, but drafting meant they were desperate.

Bruce closed the door in his office and sighed. He turned around to his desk and picked up the phone, his fingers hovered over the keys as if the thought of calling and asking his son to come here so he could deliver the dreadful news scared him.

He dialed the number quickly, getting it over with, and sat down in the large comfy chair in front of his fathers' oak desk. He held the phone up to his ear, waiting as it dialed.

_Click. _"Hello?"

"Dick, it's Bruce."

"Yeah, I know. What's up? I'm about to leave for work," Dick answered. Bruce heard the door of Dick's apartment close shut.

"Do you think, after work, you can come by Gotham? We need to talk."

Dick was going down the stairs of his apartment now. "We can't talk now? How long will it take? I'm following a uh, special lead for work. Probably overtime." Ah, so Nightwing was going to be out tonight, wonderful.

"This is important. How fast do you think you can get here?" Bruce asked. This was Dick's letter, he needed to see it now.

"From Blüdhaven to Gotham? With traffic it's about forty-five minutes. And uh, without it's about twenty. On a good day. Should I bring my bags? I'm not working tomorrow. I could always Zeta over."

Bruce pursed his lips, and paused. It would probably be best if Dick stayed here. He'd have to notify Amy, his boss, of the news of course. Bruce wouldn't be surprised if Dick took the next week off on sick leave. After Monday, Dick would be at a station and then maybe a few days after that he'd be going to Basic Training. He'd want time to say goodbye, of course, and then Bruce figured that he'd want time to let it sink in. So far, the war seemed to be going nowhere. They'd gain ground and then lose it or lose it and then gain it back again.

"The Batcave Zeta is down for repairs. But bringing your things would be a good idea, actually. What time should I expect you?"

Dick paused, and Bruce heard heavy breathing and Dick lifting his motorcycle up. "Uh… five thirty? I'm getting off at five. Will Damian be there? Kid left his sketchbook at my place."

"Five-thirty works. And yes, Damian will be there," Bruce replied, closing his eyes briefly. God, Dick's drafting would kill Damian, if he hadn't already figured it out. The kid was, admittedly, smart and with the look he had been giving Bruce that morning, Bruce wouldn't be surprised if Damian had pieced it together. He probably knew Dick hadn't changed his address yet. Bruce hardly regulated what Dick did. Sure, he kept tabs on him, more than Dick probably figured he did, but he didn't notice what he did legally (ish).

Even then so, Bruce suddenly dreaded this evening.

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><p>Dick stayed in his room that night. He didn't come out to eat dinner, and he didn't answer when they knocked on the door. Damian seemed particularly bothered by it. He went at least four times throughout the night. When Tim came to visit, and the news was delivered, he sat outside Dick's old room for about twenty minutes. Later, they found Damian had replaced Tim, as the elder boy had gone to his own room to rest. Bruce had to move Damian from Dick's door, the boy fell asleep in front of it.<p>

That morning, they sat in the kitchen and awkwardly ate their breakfast.

Dick came down and sat down next to Damian, who scooted just a little closer. He glanced around, glaring at anyone who looked like they would comment.

"I read the letter, I'm supposed to be there by Monday. Come earlier if possible," he inquired, and dumped some sugar into his coffee. "I uh…" he paused and looked around. "I want to be out of here by Friday."

Tim sat up abruptly and leaned forward. "Friday!? Dick, you have the option to wait? Why go earlier?"

Dick pursed his lips and avoided their bewildered gazes. In all honesty, he wasn't sure why he wanted to go earlier. Maybe he wanted to get it over with, or maybe it'd reduce the pain. In passing, he thought it'd be less people he'd have to look in the face and say goodbye to; he brushed that idea aside and turned away from that train of thought. He didn't want to be weak about it.

He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it and then opened it.

"Oh, spit it out, Grayson!" Damian demanded, which caused Tim to elbow him in the side. Damian growled, but got the message.

"I'm actually not sure," Dick admitted, shrugging. "I mean, I want to get it done faster. And I can arrange stuff with my boss and my apartment complex. That'd take no time. And saying goodbye, that won't be too hard. I mean… now that I'm being given the chance."

In the years to come, Damian had often analyzed Dick's statement. He never understood what Dick meant by saying 'now that I'm being given the chance'. For a few years, he thought it was just being given the chance to say goodbye. He knew the story of the Grayson's, Dick had never been given the chance to say goodbye to them before they died. The epiphany had come to Damian one morning over coffee and toast, when he was thirty years old. It hadn't been relevant to his situation around him, the early morning, but Damian thought about Dick Grayson and his words. 'Now that I'm being given the chance', yes Dick had meant the chance to say goodbye, but there was one phrase Damian had forgotten to tag on all those years. Dick had not been given the chance to say goodbye before his parents died. And so, when Dick Grayson stood there in that kitchen all those mornings ago he had said, and meant to say, 'now that I'm being given the chance to say goodbye before I die.' Dick Grayson had undoubtedly thought that he was going to die in the war.

Had Tim been a less emotional child, and teen, he would have only grimly set his hand on Dick's shoulder at his confession. But, it was seen that Tim Drake was in fact a very emotional child and was not afraid to let that out as he jumped forward and called out in surprise. "Dick! You want to go? That's ridiculous! You can't, you've got to stay here! Surely you can work something out with the military or something."

"Drafted, Tim. There's a difference between fear for myself and fear of what will happen to what I'm leaving behind," Dick replied, his voice sounded exhausted, as if he'd done through this conversation in his head before and reliving it was almost boring.

Tim sighed and let his arms fall to his sides. "I… I guess but…"

Dick looked from Bruce to Tim, cutting the younger boy off to talk his point. "I know, I'm not happy with it much either. I'll be out of here by Friday alright? Now I'm… I'm going to go out there and call my boss and my complex. I'm going to work something out, if not…"

"We'll keep your apartment clean," Bruce assured. "Just go out and work the details."

Dick nodded thankfully and turned to walk out of the kitchen with his phone in hand. He looked as if he wanted to pause at the doorway and almost apologize for leaving earlier than they needed him too but he must have brushed it aside and continued on his way. When he disappeared out of the door, Damian got up and left through the back entrance of the kitchen that led to the gardens. Tim and Bruce watched him leave in sullen silence, unable to protest the Damian's obvious anger.

Neither Tim nor Bruce had said much since the news. It mostly consisted of awkward silences and looks and the occasional question on what was going to happen in the future. Elections were coming up, and Lukas Weisheit was up on the polls by almost 80%. Biggest voter turnout since the Election of 2008, claimed the newscasters. Lukas's stance on foreign affairs and war concerned some of the Wayne family group. While he was more liberal in most issues, Lukas Weisheit had a very conservative view of the military. Now that Dick was being drafted into that military, the concern of where he would go seemed to dawn on both Bruce and Tim and because they'd never have to worry about war and their family being in it, it was a new and uncomfortable feeling.

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><p>Dick hadn't wanted a goodbye party. The idea of a party was almost too melancholy when being sent off to war. It wasn't like Dick had not seen battle either. In fact, it was almost laughable to think he hadn't. Dick had the oldest youngest eyes, blue as the dickens and piercing against his dark Romani skin. They'd seen battle, sure, more than you'd think a man of twenty four should have.<p>

He had told Barbara and Wally first, aside from the few people out of his friend circle that needed to know. Barbara had taken it slowly and in turn, frowning and pursing her lips before saying anything. Wally had looked… devastated. While Wally being 26 was more the demographic you'd think the military would be looking for, a scientist such as himself would be working on the technology that would develop the weaponry.

Dick had told them in stride and slowly, not wanting to blurt it out and be blunt about it. He could tell they were both grateful for his relaxing manner. Dick's demeanor had subconsciously become more like Batman's. He was still a laughing, enjoyable young man but he could be brooding and blunt sometimes. Wally had left with a meaningful hug and a promise to visit before he left one last time. Barbara and Dick sat there in silence, unsure of what to say.

Their relationship had progressed since the time they were teenagers, but still at twenty-four and twenty-five, it was more in the awkward stages and slowly inching forward. They had obvious feelings for each other, but did not take action on those feelings. When Dick sat on his bunk at the barracks a few weeks later, he regretted not saying anything to his redheaded friend.

When Barbara left, they hugged briefly and she was gone. They did not really say goodbye, expecting to see each other again, but it would not be for a while before they saw each other once more. By the time Thursday arrived, Dick had told the Justice League and there was a constant stream of members through the mansion that day. No one had gotten ahold of Jason and for a while, Dick was disappointed. Just like he had the League, Dick had told The Team of his soon-to-be-absence on the team. Leaving Aqualad in charge, they bade their farewells and watched Nightwing leave, hoping that they'd see their leader again alive and well.

When it was Thursday night, Dick was standing with bags at the floor. The only thing he had one was one last outfit and upstairs his pajamas.

"Going anywhere?" Tim joked lightly as he descended down the stairs.

Dick turned and smiled. "Naw… just thought I'd pack a few bags for fun."

Tim was already in his pajamas, it was late. Early for them, of course, but Nightwing and Red Robin had seemingly different time schedules than Dick Grayson and Tim Drake. Dick sighed and looked at his bags and then back at Tim, pursing his lips. "I'm going to be back around twelve alright? Don't want you to wait up for me."

Tim looked down and noticed the car keys in Dick's hand. Normally, Dick took his motorcycle everywhere he went but that had since been stuck in the garage, under a tightly knit tarp to keep anyone and everyone out. He glanced up, wide eyed for a moment. Was Dick leaving early? Surely not, that would be foolish. He hadn't said goodbye to Bruce or Damian and, hell, even Barbara yet! "What? Seriously Dick, where are you going?"

Dick's confusion on lasted a moment and then when it passed he threw his head back and placed a hand on Tim shoulder, moving him forward a couple inches with the force. "I'm not leaving right now. I'll be back tonight— like I said, don't wait up for me. Alright? I'm going to…," he paused momentarily, the smile on his wavered, "…to the graveyard. I want to say goodbye to them. Like I said earlier, now that I have the chance."

Tim's face relaxed. He'd heard Dick use 'not that I have a chance' fairly loosely (at least, it seemed loosely) in the past day or two; like Damian, I wasn't until much later that Tim figured out the meaning, that oh-so-obvious why-didn't-I-get-that? meaning, and looking back he wished he had said something more meaningful than "alright".

"Alright," Tim replied, smiling softly. They both nodded in agreement and turned to leave. Tim was halfway up the steps when he turned around to say one last thing, but Dick Grayson had disappeared out of the doors and into the October air.

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><p>October, 2016 Friday Morning<p>

Friday morning was melancholy, the air in the morning had become still. Neither wind nor sun went along their merry way. There were clouds, light ashy grey clouds that floundered effortlessly through the Gotham sky. The sun peeped through, as though afraid to see the world through the cloudy lenses. Dick's bags had moved from the front foyer to the car early before the sun or the clouds could be seen through the black. No one in the house said a word, really. It didn't seem real, as if you were going on a trip to some faraway exotic country in a few months and when you signed up it had all been like a dream. It was probably best to think Dick was going to some far exotic country, which, in truth, he was. Russia was far, though maybe not exotic, and he was going there for a long time.

Dick was leaving at noon, but the restless night had everyone up at around eight o' clock in the morning. Damian was the last the leave his room. His mood was sour and grumpy and when he sat at the kitchen table he glared daggers into its silestone counter. Tim tiptoed around him, and Bruce seemed to ignore him. Dick had tried to engage in light conversation, but died away as soon as Alfred gave him his coffee. Dick thanked him, smiling almost sadly and stared at the counter with Damian. When breakfast was finished, they hung around for a while and then went their separate ways. At 11:50, it was time to say goodbye. They were outside in the driveway, holding onto their coats and hats.

"Are you all packed?" Bruce asked after a few minutes of standing.

Dick nodded, glancing around between Tim, Bruce, Damian, and Alfred (they still hadn't gotten ahold of Jason). "Yeah, just the things I need. I don't imagine there's too much you can bring."

Bruce "hmmed" in agreement. "Any of your… extracurricular stuff?"

Dick stared at Bruce for a moment in confusion, holding his jacket in both his hands. He lowered his arms and then laughed. "That… er, stuff, is at home. Here, though you guys are going to have to clean out that closet of mine. Not everything fits in my suit case if you get what I'm saying. And inspection…" Dick's voice faded before he laughed again. "So, in short, no I didn't. A few select stuff, but nothing that can't be disguised."

"I'm sure you could hide it," Tim inquired, slapping Dick on the back as he walked by with one last bag.

Dick laughed and turned to get in the car. He ran into Damian as he turned, the boy ready with his arms in a hug. Dick stopped short, looking down in momentary shock. Slowly, he smiled and kneeled down, wrapping his arms around in a large hug. Damian's whisper was muffled and only Dick could hear it, exactly what Damian wanted.

"_Why do you have to go?" _

Dick's time with Damian had, apparently, been worth it. They sat there like that for a few moments. It was cold outside and Damian had stubbornly left his jacket inside the Manor. Dick supposed that Damian and he had bonded during Bruce's absence. "Because I have to, Little D," Dick replied, and pulled away and smiled. He rubbed Damian's hair and stood up. The ride was just him and Bruce and so he said goodbye to Tim (wished him luck with girls, school, and other stuff) and then he got in the car. Bruce followed suit and then it was one short wave toward the Manor and his family and the car disappeared down the long tree-lined path and it was gone.

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><p>Basic Training, Fort Drum; Upper New York State, five hours from Gotham City<p>

Bruce didn't stay for the orientation or anything. Dick was dropped off and gave a short, awkward goodbye. He regretted not doing or saying anything but his heart wasn't in it.

"Bye, Bruce," Dick said quietly, giving his mentor and old friend a hug. He was being given the chance, he better use it.

"You too Richard, good luck." Bruce clasped his hand on Dick's shoulder and smiled slightly. "Stay safe."

"I will."

That was it. It was a short but sweet exchange. Bruce was, exponentially, a very emotionless man. At least he was on the outside. Bruce Wayne felt emotion, very much like any other person did. He did not prefer to show it. It wasn't like he was a mean, grouchy old man (although, according to Dick and Wally, he could be) but Bruce preferred to keep everything inside of himself, bottled up like an aged wine. And, of course, aged it was; the regret and emotion of his parents was still leaking out, it was red and aged maybe too well. Dick had grown accustomed, and even adapted, to Bruce's emotions. Sometimes, he didn't handle it well but other times he was a mirror image, doing and saying exactly as Bruce would in that situation.

Bruce turned and went and Dick waved slowly, but he hand fell after a mere few seconds. He turned with his bags and walked in, and it began.

* * *

><p>Basic Training, Day 1 Fort Drum, 10th Mountain Division<p>

The first few weeks, the only really difficult thing was getting up at earlier times and passing inspections. Dick Grayson was undoubtedly the most unclean "kid" in that room. The barracks were, for the most part, clean and the privates liked to keep it that way to avoid trouble from Sergeant White. The physical training aspect wasn't all too difficult. Dick hadn't really had a workout routine though, normally just going out and busting a few people, or more than a few, tended to provide good physical exercise. Sometimes they worked in the afternoon and sometimes it was the morning. Some days, some kid messed up and they'd be working until ten at night. Other days, they pleased their commanding officer and were permitted to rest.

After basic, Dick knew they would mostly be separated. He'd be stationed in Europe for a little while, being trained in things he already knew (military tactics were easy, but applying them with untrained not justice-league people was going to be hard). He'd made friends though, one guy- Jackson Keys from Alabama reminded them all of Buba from Forest Gump, so some of them called him Buba. Dick just called him Jackson, for the most part. Jackson was 20, only four years younger but he seemed like a kid to Dick. It had taken Dick a while to adjust to the fact that he wasn't around Wally or Roy or experienced heroes like himself. These were soon-to-be heroes but even then so, looking at someone of his age who hadn't seen the things he had seemed odd, but Dick liked the change.

The boys in the barracks didn't want to call him Dick (too old, Jackson told him one morning as they were getting ready, too old for a young generation) and so they asked him where he was from and where he came from and what he was called back home. "Er, Gotham," he replied, unsure of what to say. The circus was, while an acceptable answer, probably not the best thing to admit to in the military and he didn't have a definite birthplace. "But I live in Blüdhaven." A few guys cringed and shook their heads and one guy, Pearl (real name or nickname? Could be his last name too though) even clapped him on the back and apologized. It did earn him the reputation of being from two of the worst cities in the country.

"And ya' nickname?" Jackson asked at the mess hall. "You' got one don' ya'?

Jackson's accent was between something from Alabama and from Northern England and Dick had a difficult time understanding. He looked up from his sandwich. "A nickname? It was usually just Dick, like the name. I didn't really have anything else."

Jackson took a bit out of his own sandwich and then rubbed his hands together. "Rich? Richie? Grayson?"

Dick laughed. "God, I'm glad it wasn't _Richie _or some crap like that. No, just Dick. Though, my adoptive brother… or brother, whatever he is, he called me Grayson."

Jackson looked up in surprise. "You' adopt'ive brother called jah' by ya' last name?"

"I mean, I was more _his_ adoptive brother. I'm adopted myself, sort of. I was, and am, more of a ward. Just an heir to the cash and all and his dad, my adoptive father, didn't really know he existed for the first nine years of his life. And the environment of his mother's place isn't the best for a kid. He calls people by their last names, just a thing."

Jackson shrugged and took another bite. "We sure as hell ain't calling you Grayson. Not like sarge does, or dem NCO's. What cho' like doin'? Where can I get uh' nickname from?"

Both of them paused a moment to think and neither came up with anything.

"Nicknames, eh?"

Jackson and Dick turned to see a tall exotic woman with dark tan skin and brown hair. Her eyes were brown, dark brown, and she wore the typical outfit of a Female private. She smiled as she slid next to Jackson. It wasn't a smirk or a look of pride, it was just a genuine friendly smile. Dick smiled back.

"So," she began whilst clapping her hands together, "I'm Eleanor." Dick noted she didn't look like an Eleanor. She looked foreign, like her name should have been less familiar and more unfamiliar. "But my friends call me Ariel." She didn't look like an Ariel much either, but who was he to judge her?

She nodded toward them both. "Go on, do tell your names and don't make my venture over here a waste of time."

Dick almost rose to shake her hand, but he just slid it across the table and gave his most charming smile. "Richard Grayson, pleasure to meet you Eleanor."

Eleanor shook his hand and then shook Jackson's, she smiled the whole time. It was an odd smile, but Dick hadn't met too many people here that smiled a lot. "Well, Richard Grayson. I'm surprised Gotham's Golden boy would be here."

Dick lifted his hands in a shrug and smirked. Jackson looked between the two, confused.

"Now Eleanor you gonna have to tell me what you mean now," Jackson inquired, sliding Dick's tray across the table so he could eat it. The he jabbed his fork between the two and gestured for an explanation. Dick laughed, but before he could speak Eleanor turned around to Jackson and mimicked the jabbing motion.

"Mr. Grayson over here is Gotham's Golden Boy, ward of the ever famous and ever charming Bruce Wayne."

Jackson looked impressed and then he shrugged and then he went back to eating food. Normally, people were impressed for much longer, and asked about the money and the life that everyone thought they knew Bruce lived. Dick, for a moment, didn't mind being in the military. They were shit-scum, but at least they were all shit-scum together and they knew it and accepted it.

"You're from Gotham?" Dick asked. Most people didn't refer to Dick as Gotham's Golden Boy unless they were in Gotham and he was being interviewed by the papers. After he moved to Blüdhaven he was only ever talked to/about when they wanted to learn more about something Bruce had to pull off to look dumb (and sometimes it wasn't that much). After a few people, he was referred to as one of Gotham City's most eligible bachelors and they didn't like him to forget it. After a few photo-shoots, the twenty-four year old had elected to just ignore most of the press, which he found made his life a whole lot easier. Frankly, he didn't want his boss Amy finding a picture of him posing on the top of Gotham's Teen Girl magazine.

Eleanor shrugged. "I live in the suburbs near the city. By no means as bad in crime, but it's considered technically apart of the city. We get all the news and stations and all but no Joker or anything, thank God."

"Ah," Dick replied, "that explains it. I live in Blüdhaven now, so thankfully I'm not as attacked by the press as often. Bruce can deal with them but after not being in the spotlight for so long…," he shrugged. "It feels weird. Plus, if my boss finds a picture of me on some stupid magazine."

Eleanor laughed. "True, that'd be awkward. My mother, bless her heart, tried her best to keep me from the Gotham Teen magazines when I was 15-16. For the most part, it worked, but I did get to see some things that I probably shouldn't have. Do you remember that one issue of Gotham Weekly? They have some issues for teenagers…"

Dick paused, searching his memory. Jackson watched on quietly, eating the rest of their food and trying to figure out why in God's name anyone would want to read magazines. The Dick groaned. "Don't remind me! I was fourteen, God, not even Wally lets me live that one down!"

Eleanor laughed in response. "Yeah, well for the most part I didn't get to read them. I went to a private school and, while you know it was great, we didn't get a lot of the outside world. I spent most of my time reading books. War books, mostly with lots of quotes. And for some reason in order to make up for not reading about someone's sex life I spent my time memorizing quotes about war and peace and what not."

Jackson choked on his food. "Ma'am… excuse me?"

Eleanor looked up in thought. "Yeah, didn't really do much for me really except prepare for the names on the tests."

Dick and Jackson laughed at her, and Eleanor laughed with them.

For the next few weeks, those three hung out quite often. When they weren't working out, most of the privates and NCO's went to the bars and pizza places. Jackson, Dick, and Eleanor all spent their times drinking beers and seeing who could guess who said what quote. Most of the time, it was Dick and Eleanor spitting out useless quotes and jokes, but Jackson often told them hilarious stories from his hometown in Alabama.

"Okay, okay… get this, so there's this Union General right? John Sedgwick and he's on his horse and all and his sitting up all high and proud and goes 'They couldn't hit an elephant at this distance!' and the gets shot in the cheek like three seconds after!"

Dick roared with laughter and Jackson shook his head with a smirk.

"Really?"

"I can guarantee it," Eleanor replied with a shrug, and then took a swig of her beer. "Right in the cheek, by a sharpshooter in Spotsylvania. Look it up, it's there. I was crying about that for a week in my junior year."

Dick shook his head. "That's pretty funny. Alright, who said this…'The object of war is not to die for your country but to make the other bastard die for his.'"

Eleanor frowned, swinging the rest of her beer around in the glass. Jackson turned to Dick. "George S. Patton, yessiree. I know thatta' there man an'where."

Eleanor's frowned deepened. "Are you sure? I guess it does seem like something Patton would say. I always found his stuff to be a little… rugged."

"Dude was insane," Dick inquired with a nod, "but smart. And he's got a point. I'm sure as hell not going to die for this country, no matter how much I love it."

Jackson smiled. "I'll do it. I go a sista' and a little brother at my home in Little Creek. If I gotta die to protect them people back a' my home, then I sure as hell lay down my life and the other bastards too." He lifted his drink up and a toast sort of manner and the other two clinked their glasses against it. Eleanor slowly put down her glass without drinking the rest, and frowned.

"I always appreciated the Enlightenment. I mean, it was just after the scientific revolution where thought and reason could explain Religion and God and that maybe divine right doesn't exist. I always thought that, hey if these people in the early 17th and the 18th century can explain what God might have done and war and peace and 'hey, maybe people are wrong' and even though woman couldn't do anything but make her husband look better (thank God for Mary Wollenscraft, bless her soul) then maybe I can get me some of these quotes in my head and memorize them and then change my outlook on life. I never expected to go into the military, I always just assumed I'd become a teacher or thinker or writer. Quotes are a great way, I found, to look at life from someone else's era and ways… and make them yours. War was never an issue or anything, but I'd never lived through war. It's like Voltaire said 'It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets.'" Eleanor paused and neither Dick nor Jackson knew what she meant or what she was saying. It seemed like some big ramble about war and the enlightenment and her sudden turn in the military.

"Ma'am, I don' think I undahstand what you are saying," Jackson inquired, leaning forward just a bit. Eleanor looked at him with her dark brown eyes and smiled slightly.

"I'm saying I never expected war. I always looked at it through those enlightened eyes of the 17th and 18th century. And now, here I am sitting at a bar with two of my fellow shit-scum and we're discussing war, because we're in one. We're discussing going and killing people for our country and Richard, you admitted you couldn't do it. Or, at least, it'd be hard. And Jackson, you said you could. I don't know, all those quotes… that mass murdering people can only be excused if it's done to trumpets and orders. Things about making other people die just so you and your family don't." Eleanor paused. "It seems selfish."

Dick frowned and looked down at his beer. He'd never been much of a beer person and legally, Jackson shouldn't even be drinking, but it seemed when people got drunk they were either really funny, really angry, or really philosophical. He didn't know how many beers Eleanor had had but they'd been here almost three hours. He looked up again and smiled at Eleanor softly. Her features seemed sharpened by the low light of the bar, and while looking down, she looked angry.

"Eleanor, I'm not… much of a fan of killing people. I know what you mean, it is selfish. War is definitely selfish. It's angry, and it's cruel and you're killing people because it's selfish. But it is defense and I'm not excusing it, killing is killing. But that doesn't make us murderers. My parents were killed by murderers, I watched it happen too."

Eleanor looked up, and Jackson was watching intently.

Dick continued, "But we're here now, and we're going to defend this country and Russia and the others are going to defend their own. It's not all selfish, but it's all excused, but here we are. It's like H. G. Wells said, 'If we don't end war, war will end us.' So, we need to go out there and end the war. It doesn't end itself, it can't. If ending war, really ending it, is selfish… we're saving lives by ending it and I think that's alright."

Dick and Jackson took Eleanor back to the female barracks that night and went to their own. Dick lied there in bed and stared at the ceiling from his top bunk, ignoring the gnawing thought of what'd he'd said that night. Killing is alright if the masses are saved…

So, this was war then.

* * *

><p>Dick was able to write one letter before he was transferred. He hadn't gotten the chance to write letters much but when he did he updated them on his military training and the food (they got nothing on Alfred). He asked about Damian and Tim and if they found Jason and told him yet. He got short responses back from Bruce, nothing from the rest. It wasn't awful, but it was good just to see the handwriting.<p>

Dick's letter was not like the others, it was short. He told them he wouldn't be able to send letters where he was going. There was going to be a little more training before he'd be sent to the Russian front. He told them that these past 3 or so months had been interesting and insightful. Dick wasn't one to be very sentimental, though often he could be. It wasn't like it meant anything, this letter, but sometimes people can find things in words that weren't supposed to be found, or weren't even meant to be there. He said goodbye, because he still had the chance, and then he signed the letter and sent it off. Dick never got a reply, or maybe it just never made it to him, and he always wondered what that response would be.

Dick and Eleanor and Jackson and the rest of their unit were being shipped off to Germany before they would be stationed in Russia. Their commanding officer, Sergeant White, was screaming at them on their last day.

"Ya'll were some dumb stupid-ass pieces of shit. But were my stupid-ass pieces of shit. I ain't coming with you to that island of shopkeepers and I sure as hell ain't gonna help you all when you're down. But I wish you the best of luck, and don't waste all that training. You're my unit, and you're going to act like it."

It was expected, of course, that they were going to at least be insulted once before they left, but the Sergeants words did help them as they boarded their plane with luggage and last words. The plane ride wasn't comfortable, it was hot and sweaty and they all held their issued M4A1's to their sides. Eleanor was next to them, her helmet and luggage all tied to her body. She looked disgruntled, like the thought of going to England upset her. Neither Dick nor Jackson talked much, and Eleanor was all but ignoring everyone but their new officer, who was an Afghanistan veteran and couldn't be much older than 35.

Once they landed in England at the US military base, they were unloaded and unpacked and given new orders and officers and barracks. It was rainy, cloudy, and dark and no one seemed to be in the mood of moving at all. Dick and Jackson walked sluggishly behind their troop. Dick had been to England a few times and had found Alfred's homeland to be wet and rainy, but he did like the countryside. That always had such a mysterious air about it, the villages and towns and no matter how hard you tried you just felt so… quaint. Of course, he might be stereotyping but that's what it felt like.

Their training in England was rigorous and mostly outside. Which meant mud and dirt. They often rain 25-30 miles with their sacks full of supplies and their weapons all strapped on their back. Dick hated running circuits. It got boring after a while, the same scenes and the same images passing through your head and after a while your thoughts went moot and lazy and tired. Dick could just run 25 miles in one direction, he could. He'd never get bored or tired.

Dick was sore, but his body was more accustomed to jumping off buildings and throwing electrified escrima sticks at villains to stop drug cartels. 30 mile runs were new, but Dick liked it. He was stretching new muscles and challenging the old ones and frankly, it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe if he survived this war, if he could go back alive with his body and mind intact, Dick would take up running. He was always more of a sprinter, but he'd be damned if he wasn't suddenly a distance runner.

After a few weeks (three and counting) the first set of troops were sent to the front. They waved goodbye, smiling with bright cheerful faces. Dick was reminded, as he waved solemnly, of pictures of the Nineteen-forties, of smiling young men who had no idea what war looked like, what battle appeared to be. It was not heroic, it was not like the fantasies and suddenly Dick's hand fell to his side and he frowned and suddenly dreaded the world.

_War is not an adventure. It is a disease. It is like typhus. _—Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Soon it would be their turn, like children listening to their father's calls: they would run forth with guns like sticks and swing them to play their war games and it would be like children, fighting in the front yard for something they both wanted; victory. It would be endless slaughter to the sound of trumpets and, like Napoleon Bonaparte said "A soldier will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon" and in the end, it would not be worth that slice of silk.

Dick found it hard to sleep at night, his head reeling with those smiling, ignorant faces. He could not imagine the looks that would dawn on them as they huddled behind trenches and trees, shivering in the, cold and thinking, knowing, that their image of war was wrong. Humans were wrong all the time, but seeing was believing and war was one thing no one wanted to see to believe. Dick knew battle, but in his mind it was all justified. Save and keep safe the innocents. But, were these people they were shooting at, in a sense, innocents? No maybe not, they shot right back. So, in the end, who was innocent? The woman and her child or the man with a gun, drafted into war to play for victory that might never come.

Over the next couple of days, Dick thought long and hard. His sense of humor had, in the past few months, faded with every new dawn and every sunset. Eleanor mostly mumbled things to him, and Jackson was silent, his face strained as they worked out everything and began to fear the tide. They were older and tired and had seen endless days of cloudy skies and rain. Soft rain, hard rain, little droplets of rain and the big geezers that slapped your face.

Dick sat down on their nights off and wrote letters. He wrote them to Bruce, to Barbara, to Tim and Damian, and his parents. He sat down and scribbled words and sayings to Wally and Artemis and the team. He couldn't mail them, but he knew if he died all of his stuff would be sent back to Bruce. At least, eventually, they would get them. He kept the letters stored in his backpack, next to his ammo and his water.

There was one cloudy but technically dry day where Dick was sitting there writing another letter when one of the British officers came up to him. Dick hadn't had much experience with this woman, but she had that stern militaristic air about her. At least she didn't insult them, however, as bad as Sergeant White.

"Grayson, my name is Sergeant Major Spera. I'm here to talk to you about something. Don't bother saluting, this is off the record."

Dick didn't have too many conversations with his officers that went like normal, everyday conversations. Then again, already this didn't seem to be normal and every day. He turned to the Sergeant Major as she sat down on the bench next to him. She was in her forties, around Bruce's age, maybe a little older. She looked like a mother though, with her graying her. But her eyes were tough and stern and it wasn't a good idea to piss Spera off. "Off the record?"

"Yes," she replied, pursing her lips as she watched a few people run down the lane. "Off the record. Technically, I'm not supposed to but…" Spera shrugged. "I've been granted permission. This is important, so I want you to promise me, on the record, that you won't go off telling your friends Keys and Smith that you were approached by me, understood?"

Dick knew, suddenly, he was being approached with classified information. Bruce had taught him at fifteen to identify when someone was telling you something they weren't supposed to. Or at least, something they were supposed to but no one was to know about it. It was all in the eyes.

He reached up to "rub his ear" but turned on a small recording device he'd decided to wear that day on a whim. Maybe he was psychic. "On the record? But I thought this was off."

"Your promise is on, my question and your response are off," Spera replied.

"Oh." Wow, the best he could say is oh. He wanted to ask and point out he wouldn't promise till be knew what she was going to ask, but this was Private Grayson who was only a E-1 and not Nightwing, Blüdhaven's hero and protégé to the Dark Knight. "I don't see why not." At least he could play ignorance. "I won't tell Jackson or Eleanor."

Spera smiled in response. Dick felt he could trust her; he could not decide if that was a good or bad thing. "Wonderful, Grayson. Thank you."

He nodded and glanced around. "I'm here to talk to you about a program. You are, clearly, one of our smartest privates. And we'd like you to participate in it. You have the choice of declining, of course."

"A program?" Dick felt like Steve Rogers for a moment. "What type of program?"

Spera sighed. "This war is not ending, Richard. Lukas tells us it's ending soon, that it's going to be over. I've seen the pictures, I've seen the boys coming back. It's not over. Peter the Biter isn't letting up. He's already moved into a little bit of China and toward Poland. Germany is on our side, France is supplying us with weapons. America… you guys are stocking up on so much weaponry it's a little mad1. But we aren't winning. It's… mutual, almost." Spera looked tired, like she'd wanted to admit this for a while. Dick felt dread. He knew it was bad, he just didn't know how much.

"Biter is moving forward, he's advancing. He's getting weapons… from God knows where. We think he's getting supplies from some unknown sources in the Pacific, which makes sense. I know Britain and America are trying to get the Justice League. Japan is moving back into the Pacific as well. People are dying by the thousands. War is glamorized, but death is something they never account for," Spera inquired. "We are creating a program to infiltrate Biter's organization. Training people to fight, more than just what the military is providing them. It's a joined team— America, Britain, Germany. France wanted out, but they're still in the war. We need smart young man, strong."

Dick stared at her. "You want me."

"You were recommended by White himself. We looked at you tests too— you excelled in all of them."

"Right."

Spera stood up and looked at the grey sky. "You don't have to answer me now. I need it before next week though." She left then, leaving Dick sitting there on the bench with his pen and paper under his hands. He was frowning, staring after her. Funny they would choose the fighter, the Leaguer, the circus-boy. Funny how life worked out like that.

* * *

><p>Dick needed to get more information about this "program" that Spera had approached him with. Dick had dealt with military before as Nightwing, in Bialiya, in Space with Aliens, and even on earth, trying to stop a war. He'd never been in the military, however, and that meant he'd have less lenience and more rules to follow. He wasn't keen on breaking any of these rules, but most military leaders could be pretty ignorant to an alleged Justice League hero who was a private, sneaking around camp to find out about a program that they'd been approached with. It wasn't his fault he was five times smarter than most of the people on base (not to be arrogant or anything).<p>

He was in his civilian clothing though, sneaking around base with only a few throwing stars and some recording devices. It was dark when he got out there that night, and foggy. The fog was so intense, Dick regretted not bringing his night vision mask. At least he would be able to see any oncoming soldiers.

He crept through the fog and the black, his ears open for any sounds and his eyes strained for any people. It was silent, only the silent drops of small rain hitting the dirt resounded through the air. He crept up to the officers' quarters, where he knew some of their offices were held. He needed to bug Spera, of course, and then search through her files. If any other names were listed, he'd need to keep a lookout for them. Dick really didn't have clearance, of course, to look at most of these documents and files. He couldn't leave a trace.

Dick reached the officers building without a hitch. It wasn't hard, any footprints he'd leave would blend in with the thousand on the ground, he'd just have to take off his shoes when he got to the inside, he didn't want to leave mud that hadn't been there before. He stood in the back and jumped on some trashcans, leaping up and grabbing the window sill. He swung for a minute from side to side and then threw up his left hand to grab the sill, using his momentum to swing up and put his left foot up. The window sill was bulky, and above it, on the top of the window, there was a small place (he recalled this place being called a header) he could put his hands. He could see inside the office now, thankfully it was empty. He grabbed that small header above the window with his left hand and brought his right leg up. He sat there for a minute and breathed. He had missed this.

Dick leaned into the window, and let go of the header and grabbed the bottom. The frame was wooden, and old. The paint had peeled slightly and the glass shook in the squares as Dick grabbed hold of the bottom. It was unlocked, foolishly, and he pushed it open, and he winced at the squeaking sound it made. He turned and sat down on the sill, forced his boots off and stuck them on the side. He couldn't help but wince at the mud. He turned and slid inside, his greyish (they were white once) socks landed on the green carpet. The office held to large bookshelves and a crappy (Ikea?) desk. Behind the desk were cabinets and a frame with medals.

Dick smiled and went to the other side of the desk to see exactly whose office he was in. It was dark, he didn't want to risk turning on the lights. He sat down in the big chair, tapping his fingers on the arm rests. Command Sergeant Major John S. Lock was engraved onto a little sign on the desk. Dick let out a low whistle; it was a lot to write down. He pursed his lips and spun around in the chair, taking a look at the large grey filing cabinet behind him. The desk was clean, with only a Holographic Simulator Device (HSD) on the desk. He wouldn't be able to access those files without a fingerprint, of course. But people were always stupid enough to leave them everywhere. On the front of an HSD, there was a small thumb-sized scanner made up of a type of glass. If you put a little putty on it, it'd copy the print by the grease from your fingers and you could use it to access the files.

He snuck some Silly Putty out of his pocket and pressed the putty onto the glass. He held it there for three… two… one… He pulled the putty off, cleaned the glass with glasses cleaner and then held but the putty with the finger print back on the scanner. A little dot on the HSD flashed green as it turned on. It blinked for a few seconds and then stabilized. The screen popped up and the blue light cast a low glow on Dick's face.

He couldn't help the smile cross his face.

* * *

><p>There'd been nothing on the files.<p>

Nothing. Well, that was a lie. Spera was right, the program was new. But Dick had thought new in a sense of up and running new, with old applicants and records. He'd thought wrong; it was totally new. The only thing that was really helpful was the number on top of the paper, stamped on with red ink: 718457.

The file had names and places. The description on top of the file stated: "The Purpose of this Program has been declared classified by National Archives and Records Administration and is considered an active and interchangeable document. This program, the IAU (Infiltration Association Unit) is designed to go into the opposite participant's association of an AAP2 (Active Arm[s] Period) and take down said Participant through — and — means. The IAU was created by — and brought up under —. Soldiers and Civilians picked for the IAU will undergo extensive training and —, —, — in order to prepare for full infiltration. Participants will be declared —. The IAU will be a full length and fully operational Program by the end of 2017 and will go on under any means in AAP's to come."

All of the important information was blacked out by thick black ink. Dick hadn't found anything completely off about the file. He knew under that black ink could be a number of things, but he couldn't sit there and assume the worst. There were locations and pictures, but he only saw a few names he recognized. When he tried to search the names on the HSD, the device couldn't give him any files. And most of what came up was locked. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, it normally meant they were just high up and deep. It wasn't a spotlight for Dick to focus on. In all honesty, the Program didn't seem all that bad. It could be worse, Dick could have been signing up for some assassination Program. Infiltration and Covert Operations were his thing and, frankly, he was glad with the sense of familiarity.

][][][

Later, Dick sat at the bar with Eleanor asleep next to him.

They were leaving next week to go to Russia. They'd been together almost five months. It was the end of January. They'd leave the end of the first week of February. Eleanor had drunk herself asleep, and snored ever so slightly on the table on the bar. Dick was still on his first drink. He fiddled with his glass, and tapped it around the bottom with his fingers. He had planted two bugs in the office. One in the telephone and one in the telegraph, which would catch the clicks and that dick would later be able to decipher. There'd been nothing of interest. He hadn't gone to Spera's office that night because a) he couldn't find it and b) Command Sergeant Major is frankly good enough.

But now the thought of Russia was in Dick's mind. He knew Lukas and the Executive Branch were trying to cover it up as much as they could, but, of course, that was stupid. They'd get the reaction of Vietnam all over again. He'd seen a few of the guys coming back. One boy, about eighteen years old, was muttering under his breath as he held tightly to a picture close to his chest. Dick had gotten one look of the image before the boy freaked out and started sobbing.

It was of the Russia Front. It must've been take with a Polaroid camera because the bottom bit on the left was smudged. But Dick had gotten to see the Russian Front with a red sky and dirt and snow on the ground. It was frightening. He had, quietly, told Eleanor of what had happened to the boy. She stared at the ground of the bar, clutching the handle of her beer glass.

"I saw a kid… he was your age," she began, "Half his face was burned off… It was red, pink. It must've happened at the beginning but they only just got him out. He was Russian. I felt… so awful. He looked to sad, so lost. So… innocent."

It was there that Dick heard of the innocence again. Dick knew the horrors of war, he knew it all. He'd seen, in the history books at Gotham Academy, the pictures of soldiers from Vietnam and WWII, where they were shattered and lost. Some lived completely, but they were left with shattered dreams and that piece of silk. They went in with this false bravado of fearlessness and end up hiding behind trenches and soil, all because they felt a duty for their country. Sometimes, it was not all for that piece of silk, sometimes it was because you felt you had to and in the end, you were sent home, or you died, with nothing but either anger or pride, or hope. But all those innocents out there… all that false bravado. In the end, what was it worth?

_To be continued…_

* * *

><p><strong>Mad: mad/ adjective, mentally ill; insane.**

**AAP: Active Arms Period- I made this up. In fact, most of the militarily-written documents going to be in this I made up. I have little to no experience with military procedures work, or how accurate I am. Probably not very accurate. You will see AAP, IAU and lots of other procedures and organizations that I made up. I will clarify the made up ones down here, of course. Thank you. **

**Disclaimer: The Characters that belong to DC Comics respectively belong to DC comics, and therefore are not mine. So, I am not using them for any profit, gain, or any sole purpose other than to amuse, or frighten, others with them in my writing. The characters with unfamiliar names and backgrounds, Spera, Keys, Smith, White, Weisheit… belong to me. **

**Hint: Looking up what names mean in a story tells you a lot about them. **


	2. Virus

**Title: The Draft **

**Note: Please note that this story is an AU. Ages and times have been mixed up but aren't necessarily clarified in the story, if you want an explanation on the dates (Years, Days, Months, etc.) you can a) leave a review and ask or b) send me a PM. The concept in this AU can and should be completed in about 4 to 5 **_**very**_** long chapters. There will be **_**VERY SLOW**_** updates, due to my being in school and extra-curricular activities. **

**Another note: I understand that the romance between Dick and Eleanor has practically sprung out from nothing, but it has in fact been a few weeks and I'm using this "romance" to explain that, well, what love is just as I'm using this story to explain a sense of war. It is to explain Dick's loss of time to use the word "goodbye" and to show what a character he can be to people he's hardly known. It seems forced, and perhaps it is, but I hope that it isn't.**

**The tense in this chapter changes from present to past, but will remain consistent to the part being told. **

_**It has been six months as of the beginning of this chapter. **_

* * *

><p>Eleanor hadn't understood what Dick meant all the time. He was an enigma. A person that she could not pin or understand, a puzzle; a paradox. She did not mean to over analyze him, it just happened. When you hang around a person that you might die with, you tend to want to get to know them. She looked over his jokes and his laugh, and his smile. Eleanor and Dick would have battles of wit; "what makes a genius?" and "are clones possible" (Dick argued yes, an absolute yes and would refuse to move anywhere else on this spectrum of yes and no). They talked a lot, more than Jackson and Dick did. Jackson, they had found, was a very quiet yet expressive person. Out of all of them, it appeared that Dick had the most life experience. That's the thing about analyzing what people do; you noticed things they hadn't realized they'd been showing.<p>

Eleanor could see it in Dick's eyes, and often how he spoke. The twenty-four year old had an air of… young experience. Young Experience was something that Eleanor had found when she was, ironically, very young. It was when someone that was in their prime, or close to it, and yet they acted as if they had seen something from a sci-fi movie. Not a very well-thought out process of thinking, but Eleanor had been a very perceiving nine year old.

When Eleanor stood outside of their plane to head to the Russian Front, she found she was very alone. Dick was nowhere to be seen, and their Sergeant screamed orders at them. Jackson was unsurprisingly quiet. In his hand, he clutched a photograph. Behind her, Eleanor could here silent prayers that screamed much louder than the Sergeants orders. She was about to step on the plane when she ducked behind herself, and dropped her bag (Jackson ended up picking it up). Over the heads of the crowd that pushed her toward death, Eleanor could see the onyx head of Dick Grayson.

"Richard!" she yelled, and broke out of the crowd. He was in his dress uniform, with no bag and no weapon to proclaim he was joining them on their ride toward hell. She watched as he smiled.

Eleanor stopped short in front of the man, breathing heavily. Behind her the orders were being screamed, but with each passing moment they were fading into silent whispers. And she could, over those whispers, hear the prayers that came from the mouths of each very scared man. There were no smiling faces of innocence, waving off the sad faces of the people left behind. "You're not coming, are you?" she asked, knowing that that was exactly what was happening. In that moment, and there were lots of times that she realized things in the moment, Eleanor felt very scared about why Richard was going to stay behind.

"No," he answered truthfully. "I'm not. I'm coming later, they're holding me back for a while to go over a few training techniques."

Another thing about overanalyzing people; you know when they are lying. Suddenly, Eleanor wished she believed him, and wished she did not notice the lie. Richard had been the best this troop had had, everyone knew that. There was no reason for them to hold him back. This war, this dreadful, awful, dirty and selfish war needed everyone they had.

"Right, sure," she replied, though through her eyes she could see his disbelief in such a nonchalant response. "That's good… you'll have more time right?"

"Undoubtedly, yes. But… why stretch the inevitable? Death is only in our future, it is the one unchangeable thing. We are in bondage to decay, Eleanor. We can't forget that." He touched the side of face, right by her eyes. "Look at your eyes, they've already begun to fade. And contacts? You know you're supposed to tell them you have bad vision."

She chuckled and punched his arm. "I know… I know." She didn't know how he figured that out, unless he had looked so closely into her eyes one day and say the translucent rim around her irises. "And this is no time to be getting philosophical." That was a lie, she knew that too. He let his arm drop, his fingers pulling from her face.

"I think when we've got the chance, we have to say it. War is the right time, I have often found. Admitting to death is one thing, admitting it'll happen to you and you're ready is another," Richard inquired with thought, and stared at the plane.

"Takes more strength, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he said, "it really does. Things like that do. Now, Eleanor, I want you to be safe but… do what you think you have to do. I'm being given the chance… so, goodbye, alright?"

"Yeah, goodbye," she replied softly. They hugged briefly and just as she was about to pull away, Dick whispered in her ear. "You saw me not go on, I never came. Remember that, alright?"

She didn't know what he meant by that, but he pulled away and smiled. "All war is deception—Sun Tzu. Remember that too."

He paused a moment, about to turn away but then he smiled and paused to turn back. "For of all sad words, of tongue or pen, the saddest are these—."

"It might have been," Eleanor finished. Dick chuckled and nodded. And suddenly Eleanor did not have time to ask what he meant as he pulled away and waved. He was not smiling anymore, and here she saw his Young Experience. He had waved people that were going to die goodbye, but she could see he had missed a few of them. He had never gotten the chance.

* * *

><p><strong>THREE WEEKS LATER<strong>

Richard John Grayson.

A name meant a lot of things. It was a single identification of one person, so that you may be able to call and recognize and associate with them. Richard was a circus boy, a ward, a brother, a hero, a father-figure, and a lover, but most importantly, he was a person. People are not animals, yet they have been found to act like animals. Ravaging and killing, and grinning sadistically, and shooting others metaphorically and literally. Names meant a lot, and they could do a lot too. You didn't often find someone with a name that didn't mean anything to them.

Dear Family of Richard Grayson,

I regretfully write this letter to inform you of your son, _Richard John Grayson's,_ death on the battlefield in _Russia_. Mister _Grayson_ died in the _Battle of вранье Creek_. Mister _Grayson's _belongings will be sent a week after you receive this letter. He died heroically and has been given an _Honorable Discharge_. Mister _Grayson_ has also received a Purple Heart, in honor of his heroic actions during battle.

Sincerely,

Sergeant Major Diana Spera

Names mean lots of things, especially when the person that held it is gone.

* * *

><p>[Past:]<p>

Bruce held the letter in his hand. He would not forget that day. He knew neither Tim nor Damian would either, but he hadn't told them yet. Bruce was afraid. He knew that Dick's death would rip them apart. The news of Dick's departure had torn them, and Jason as well. It had been four months after Dick had left that Jason had finally shown up in Gotham again. He had had no clue that Dick had been drafted for the war. Regrettably, after a month or two, they'd given up searching for him to tell.

"Where's Dick?" Jason asked _one day_, sitting at the counter eating a scone. "I mean, I know dear brother of mine doesn't get along with you Brucie, but come on. It's been two weeks and I've had no word. And with me here you think the guy would like to stop by and say hi, he doesn't hold grudges and I _know_ I haven't done anything to piss him off."

Damian and Bruce looked at Jason. Damian's eyes were wide with almost fear, which Jason did not see often. Bruce pursed his lips and set down his drink. Jason looked between the two. "What?" He went serious, suddenly, and did not move. "What's wrong? Did _you_ _guys _do something to piss him off?"

"Do you miss him?" Tim asked from behind Jason. The elder boy turned and scowled.

"No, replacement, I don't. I'm just curious why he isn't here for you."

"He's gone," Tim bit back, glaring at Jason with malice. "You'd know if you would care enough to be around."

Jason sat up, dead serious, and completely ignoring the last part of the sentence. "Gone?! What do you mean gone?" He tried to hide the surprise in his voice, but it didn't work. He looked between the three. Damian was staring at the toast in his hands, and hadn't done a thing to get to eating it.

"He was drafted," Bruce finally replied. "Into the war. Four months ago. A letter two weeks ago came; he's in England. He can't write us anymore though, they won't let him. It was his last letter."

Jason jumped up, anger on his face. "And none of you bothered to tell me!"

"If you weren't so damn good at going off into nothing, we might've been able to tell you that the only goddamn person who you actually give two shits about is gone!"

"Tim!" Bruce snapped.

"It's true!"

"Shut up!" Jason growled, slamming his fist on the table.

"Jason…" Bruce warned, but said boy cut him off.

"Yeah, he's the only guy I "actually give two shits about" because he's the only person who gives two shits about me. And if you can't accept that someone actually likes me, that's your own damn problem!" Jason snapped at Tim, who gritted his teeth. Jason braked a laugh and turned out of the kitchen, slamming Tim into the wall. The younger boy glared at him, but did nothing in defense. Damian looked quiet the whole time, staring after Jason.

They stood there in the kitchen. Tim left angrily moments later, glaring at the floor the whole time, and went up to his room and slammed the door. They heard the reverberation through the studs of the house. Bruce looked at Damian with the soft eyes a father should have and smiled weakly. "I'll talk to him, you stay here."

But Damian did not stay there, after Bruce had walked up the stairs and was out of view, Damian rushed to his own room. It had been Dick's former room, and when the eldest boy had moved out he had asked for a smaller room for when he visited. Damian got Dick's room, which was considerably larger. On one of the walls was a large tapestry that neither of the boys had bothered to move. It was a large landscape of a woods and a river, with a Gothic cathedral in the background. Behind the tapestry (and this is why neither had moved it) there was a small hidden compartment for the occupants valuables. Dick had left a few things when he left and Damian had found it when searching the room for bugs.

He brushed the tapestry away and opened the compartment to pull out all the letters Dick had written to them. Bruce had thrown them out after reading them a thousand times, not wanting to see the handwriting or what was being said (it was likely he had committed them to memory anyway). It was stupid and so un-Bruce-like that Damian had been very confused and so after each time, he had gone a pulled the letter out of the trash and stuck them in this compartment.

After he closed the hiding spot and put the tapestry back, Damian ran to Dick's new room and stopped at the door. It was one of the simpler doors in the house, a simple oak wood and a round iron knob. It fit the old circus boy. He knocked slowly.

Jason did not reply.

Damien rolled his eyes and walked in. He found Jason had sat on the bed and had laid his head in his hands. He knew that Jason would not allow himself to cry.

"Go away, Bruce."

"Don't be ridiculous, you should have figured from the weight of my foot-steps that it was not Father," Damian inquired, stopping short a few feet of the bed.

Jason looked up and scowled. "Even worse. Go away then, Demon Spawn."

Damian shrugged his shoulders and walked to sit down on the bed next to Jason. The elder boy did nothing to protest, his heart was not in it. "You can't give me orders I'm afraid."

Jason rolled his eyes and jabbed his thumb at the stack of letters Damian held. "What are those?"

"The letters," Damian replied, his voice relaxed. "Father had thrown them out but…"

"Sentimental, I see."

"Don't be ridiculous, I kept them for you. I hardly miss Grayson, his hugs were far too intruding."

"Don't lie, I miss him too, give me the letters."

Damian handed them over in silence. They were all in order, from the first letter to the last. Damian had read them over and over, they were bent and creased and splattered on with tearstains. The only one in still perfect condition was the last one. Damian hated it, he refused to look at it over and over. It hurt far too much.

The letters will filled with updates and questions, Jason found. Dick had repeatedly asked about Jason, and if they'd found him; at this, said boy (or man, if you prefer) gripped the letter very tightly. Jason was angry at himself— God, he was such a stubborn ass.

He kept reading, finding each letter new and intriguing. At the end, of a time span about five minutes, Jason handed the letters back to Damian. They sat in silence for several minutes. The sound of silence; it echoes much more loudly than words.

"Thanks," Jason said. When there was no reply, Jason looked over, but Damian had gone. The boy had returned to put the letters Dick had written back in their hiding spot. What no one new, was that for each letter that Dick had written, Damian had written a letter back; letters that would, painfully, never get sent.

* * *

><p>Present Day, Wayne Manor 3:07 P.M<p>

* * *

><p>Bruce had gathered them all in the library, which must've been the most unused room in the entire manor. It wasn't that none of them liked to read, but it was very possible to get lost in the Wayne Library. The room, or collection of rooms, was so vast and so intertwined, you'd walk in one room and end up in another on the opposite side with no idea you got there. It was also, of course, because no one in that family had enough time to go and read much. The only two people who'd spent any considerable amount of time in the library had been Dick and Alfred; Alfred for cooking books, and Dick because he got lost so much.<p>

Tim, Damian, and Jason were all sitting in the library, in a space very close to the door. Bruce and Alfred had yet to arrive (despite Bruce being the one that called them down). It was an awkward silence, but thankfully not an angry one. The only thing that Jason and Tim had in common in that moment was pity for Damian; sure, the kid was demon-spawn, but he'd been very close to Dick, especially that year Bruce was gone. Damian had spent a lot of time at Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven as well. No one of them was quite sure what happened (they suspected Ice Cream) while Damian was there, but he always came back a little more pleasant, albeit avoidant of human contact for a week (hugs were the main cause of this).

"How are you?" Tim asked Damian, turning toward the eleven year old with caution.

Damian glanced up and grit his teeth. "I'm not in the mood, Drake, I have much more worthy things to be occupying my time with. This, and you two, are not one of them."

"God, you're so pretentious, you could'ah just said you didn't wanna to be here," Jason drawled lazily, spinning a dagger in his hand. Damian glared.

"I'm surprised you even know what the word pretentious means," Damian bit back, rolling his eyes. Jason stopped spinning the dagger and sat up, opening his mouth to say something back.

"Still fighting I see? Glad to see not too much has changed."

All three boys turned to see Bruce rolling Barbara in on her wheelchair. The girl was smirking, but it seemed half-hearted. Tim stood up.

"Barbara…," he turned to Bruce then. "Bruce, what's going on? Why are we here?"

Alfred walked in and helped Tim position Barbara, as Bruce stepped away. In his hands, he held a letter. Damian jumped up.

"Is it from Grayson?" he ushered as he stared at it curiously. Bruce brushed him off and waited for everyone to settle.

It was one of those moments where everyone in that room dreaded the same thing, but none of them were willing to speak it. It seemed too unreal for a moment, and an air of unspoken and unshed sadness swept the room like a summer wind. The letter seemed few and far away, like something in the distance that you can barely see over the heat and the brush and your eyesight just can't decipher. They all had, of course, a sense of what that letter might be if it wasn't from Dick. But if it was, why would Bruce have gathered them all in here. He'd have just read it in the kitchen, like every other morning (for Tim and Damian, at least) and then that would have been it. What was special about this letter? Was Dick coming back? It seemed unlikely, he'd only been in a few months.

(Historical Note: This War, unlike the Vietnam War, involved soldiers being gone for two years unless of a Discharge, while the Vietnam War included soldiers only being on "tour" for 365 days.)

"Not… exactly," Bruce replied steadily. If you hadn't known him, you would have seen a calm forty year old man. But these people here, they knew him. They could sense the uneasiness. "It's… about Dick, from the military. Sergeant Major Diana Spera regretfully informs us—."

"No!" Barbara exclaimed, mimicking Tim's sudden face of horror. It took Jason and Damian a moment to catch up.

"No, they're lying! They're lying!" Barbara expressed, tears leaking from her face. Tim instinctively reached to put a hand on her shoulder. Jason had dropped the dagger onto the wooden floor, staring at the letter in Bruce's hands when he realized what had happened. He hadn't even opened it. Jason stood up, still in an air of haze, and grabbed the letter from Bruce's willing hand. He collapsed back into the large old chair, slowly opening it up. He read it quietly, scanning over the typed words more than once. Behind him, he sensed Tim had gotten up to read over his shoulder; Jason didn't care.

Barbara was sobbing in her chair, and Alfred moved to comfortingly hold her hand. Dick was her best friend… he… couldn't be dead.

After several minutes of shock and tears, Tim spoke up. "Is there a body?"

Slowly, Bruce shook his head. "No, I looked up the battle; it's already in the databases; Dick's name was… on the list of the dead. There was no body found. I'm… sorry."

Tim tried not to let his tears fall out, and so he turned to Damian, hoping to somehow comfort him, but the boy was gone. Tim looked around, "Damian?" No answer.

Tim stood up to go look, quickly wiping a tear off his sleeve, but Bruce put an arm on his shoulder, shaking his head. "Leave him, we'll find him later. He'll cope, he'll have to."

Tim hesitated, but then nodded.

It would hard for all of them, but eventually, they'd have to cope.

* * *

><p><strong>Training Facility, Disclosed Location 0800 Hours<strong>

* * *

><p>Dick stood in line with two other people, one male and one female. It had been one week since he left Eleanor at the plane, and four days since he flew to this location completely drugged so he wouldn't know where he was, which made him nervous. This was the first day he'd been out of his lavishly dressed room, and the first he'd seen these two people. He supposed they must've been the other recruits.<p>

Their only orders were to stand in a line at the back of a long white room. The room was illuminated with soft blue lights, and was sleek white. It was shaped like a hanger, very large and long. It was empty, and they were the only ones there.

Dick turned to the other two. "My name is Richard Grayson," he inquired, holding out his hand. The woman smiled. She was considerably shorter than he was, with very dark ebony skin and stunning blue eyes. Her hair was cropped short in a pixie cut and a very deep brown. "Sasha Miller," she replied cheerily, with a slight African accent. He was reminded of Cassie, or Wonder Girl, who was the chirpiest and happiest person on that team, and could effectively sneak a kitten onto Superboy's shoulder and have him totally okay with it.

He turned to the other man, but he was promptly ignored. Shrugging, he turned back to Sasha. "Where are you from?"

"Oh, me? I'm from Africa, Nigeria, but I have lived in America all my life. I go by Sasha here, but my name is Adeola. I live in New Orleans now, and you Mr. Grayson?"

He grinned. "Blüdhaven, but I lived in Gotham for most of my life."

Sasha scrunched up her nose. "I've heard not too many good things from either of those places."

Dick laughed. "No, you won't. It's not all bad, depending on where you go in the city."

They began talking about life in America, and when Sasha became a citizen and the process, and then a bit about books and why they were in the military. Sasha was a very pleasant to talk to, but she had the habit of interrupting when Dick was almost finished with speaking.

They ended up talking about living in America for about ten minutes. Sasha had, like Dick, lived in many places. Living in the circus had allowed him and his family to live in a city for about three to four weeks, in and around, and get that feel of living there, but those three to four weeks were never long enough to become attached to the place they were staying. Dick vaguely recalled Paris and Rome. His mother's favorite had been Venice, and for a while she wanted to live there. His parents decided that they would wait until he was more grown up and had more memories of traveling, and old enough to remember the circus. He had only been four at the time.

Sasha had lived in New York, St. Louis, Los Angeles, and now she was in New Orleans. She knew what it was like to move a lot, and agreed with Dick that it surely opened your eyes to things. She'd been able to move much later into her life than he himself, due to his parent's deaths and living with Bruce. Dick hadn't been able to really go many places until he joined The Team, and had to travel for missions.

Dick also had not mentioned his Circus past while stationed in either New York or England. It hadn't been the best idea, he decided. Of course, Eleanor knew a little, and even Jackson, due to Dick having mentioned it in passing. The only people in his life that knew really anything about it were Bruce, Tim, Damian (however much the boy denied it), Wally, and Barbara. Of course, people knew; Clark, Diana, Roy, and hell, even M'gann and Artemis. But they didn't know everything, and even the first group of people didn't know what it was like, especially to have it ripped away to move to a lavish manor. Sasha, however, thought living in the circus was interesting, but she didn't ask much about it. Dick was thankful, and quickly switched the subject to her living in New Orleans.

It wasn't until they heard the sound of a low engine rumble and steam that their talk faded out. About ten feet ahead of the three was a hole in the ground, where the white floors had literally disintegrated into a black hole. Dick and Sasha glanced at each other, when all of a sudden there was the sound of steam being released again and from the black hole rose a woman standing there with her arms clasped behind her back and the smirk of someone who had to fight their way to get where they were.

She wore a purple suit, which contrasted oddly with her mocha skin tone. Her hair was cropped short, like Sasha's, and a very dark black, almost onyx. Her eyes pierced them, and didn't seem to match her ethnicity; they were a very light hazel, and stood out starkly. When she had fully risen from the floor, she stepped off in her purple heels and let her arms fall to her sides.

An uneasy feeling had taken to Dick's mind; he had seen her face somewhere, but he couldn't seem to place it.

She smiled at them, sweetly. It seemed genuine, but from behind Dick, Sasha took a step back.

"Hello."

None of them said anything, unsure if they had too. The woman's face went stern, like a mothers'.

"I said 'hello'," she inquired.

"Hello," the three of them chorused. The Woman grinned with satisfaction.

"Good, thank you. Now stand in a line, I can't speak to you all scattered like that," she said, glaring at them suddenly. They lined up.

"State your names. You, go first." She pointed at the man who hadn't spoken to Sasha or Dick, and he nodded quickly, but said nothing.

"I said, speak."

"Marcus Lassington," the man stammered.

"Sasha Miller."

The woman turned to Dick.

"Richard Grayson, pleasure to meet you."

"No," the woman began, "It really isn't." She stared at Dick for a few moments longer. "Do you know why you're here?"

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but the woman went on: "You are here because your commanding officers thought that you were the best bet to join this program to help end the war, at least, which is what you think. It's no lie; you probably were the best in your unit. And you three were the best the American military could pull up. Not bad, I'll admit, I've seen your performances, your scores. However," she paused a moment, staring at the floor in thought. "However… do you really know why you are here? Why we needed this program? Why you were chosen? Probably not, and you won't. Whatever you think is wrong, and that's why it'll be rewritten. You're is bliss, remember that. Your bliss comes at a price, and that price took a lot to get. You will be trained, of course, with this bliss. Of course, this will be a new bliss…" she paused to watch them with intent.

Dick stared at her back, but she switched over to Sasha and then Marcus. She turned back to Dick again.

"What's your name?"

"Richard Grayson."

"Full name, please."

Dick paused; wouldn't she know that already? "Richard John Grayson," he replied steadily.

"Hmmm… alright, thank you," the woman said with a slightly thoughtful look on her face. She walked toward them, and clasped her arms behind her back again, and then smiled. It was not a sweet, smug smile; it was one of those smiles that you see when someone has got something planned for you. Dick felt the uneasy feeling hit him again, and almost a wave of nausea. He felt sick, and wrong, and it felt like he'd done something he wouldn't like, or had not thought through. It wasn't a wrong feeling, Dick often got it on missions when something was about to go wrong. It was… a sixth sense; it was something Bruce had too, the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

The Woman looked down and pursed her lips. "You'll be explained the dealings of the program as we go along, of course. I won't leave you in complete ignorance; bliss is interrupted when you realize something is wrong. I suspect you do; no worry. I know why you're here. There are, I suppose, two reasons: a) because you did not want to die and b) because you felt… obligated I should say, to come and help end this war. I believe it's the first one because, of course…, who wouldn't want to survive? I'll admit, I would have wanted to too. You all are lying, thieving, survivors; the kind of people I wanted."

They stared at her in an almost awed shock.

"Soldiers, my name is Amanda Waller and I will be your Commanding Officer."

* * *

><p>Dick was not entirely sure that they would be explained thing "as they go along". Amanda Waller's statement had also been a lying one; Dick had been told nothing. Sure, there was training… the three of the recruits had to sprint long distances with equipment, and know how to shoot, and they even "begun" training in hand to hand combat. Out of the three, Dick was the best, even though he tried to hide any of his previous training. A lot of what they had asked him to do was things his body was familiar with and so, when they did those things, every reaction was, well, reactionary. He couldn't help knowing how to throw a knife, or how to doge a knife by flipping back and "accidently" grabbing it from the air in defense.<p>

Waller had one day pulled him aside; the conversation had been awkward, more on his part than anything else of course.

"Mister Grayson, you seem to have a… pre-established knowledge of what we are doing here, don't you?"

"Yes Ma'am," Dick replied.

Waller pursed her lips. "Mister Grayson, I know very well who you are. I understand why Mr. Wayne would be so inclined to give you lessons in self-defense. How many times had you been kidnapped?"

"More than I could count Ma'am," Dick inquired, and began to wonder where this was going.

"I see. I did not know the average civilian could get such… extensive classes in defending themselves," Waller said with calm look in her eyes.

"I took a few when I was younger," Dick explained. "But as I got older I figured out that I enjoyed it and continued my training. I'm alright now…"

Waller let out a bark of a laugh. "Alright! Hah! Yes, and Elvis is only the king. No, you are not just alright… you are stupendous. You are one of the best fighters this military has seen. You know how to use the weapons to their best ability. You know what you're doing. You are determined… you… you are the person we wanted. Mister Grayson, I believe you'll be the one to move on."

(Historical Note: Elvis was in fact the King.)

"Move on?" Dick asked as confusion sprouted in his eyes. "I thought that the three of us..."

"Were going to be a team?" Waller asked incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous, it was the three best. This is a one man job Mister Grayson. I told you ignorance is bliss."

Dick opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by Waller.

"Yes... truly bliss. I suppose today is the end of this training, you have more than you need. I'll send Miller and Lamington back; they'll go for dessert. Done , at least… for now. You are dismissed Mister Grayson."

Waller turned and walked away.

Dick watched her disappear from their training facilities. He turned to look at Sasha and Marcus. Both were relaxing at the moment, they looked tired but… peaceful. Waller was right; ignorance is bliss. He supposed that when bliss is interrupted, like Waller said, when you realize something is wrong… when something is off and the bliss you live in is interrupted and destroyed. Sometimes, the destruction of that bliss is good… now you know the truth, and the truth, well, that sets you free. But then at other times, that bliss was good… it was perfect, and when that cannon ball or bullet comes and shatters it… that is when you fall. People are the crumbling walls of childhood bliss, which is destroyed as childhood is lost, and adulthood is the bullet.

* * *

><p>Dick woke up in his room.<p>

The room was sterile white, with a steel red door and one single circular window high above him. The window let little light come in and if you stood on the opposite wall you could see it was covered with soot of some kind, so that when the light, if any, entered it would be grey and faded. Above Dick was one steel covered light that illuminated his room in bright white. Every morning it would take Dick several minutes for his to adjust.

This compound… whatever it was, was long and low and stretched for over miles as far as he could tell. His door was almost never locked but he always had the overwhelming sense of being watched, of eyes following the tap of his fingers and the shaking impatience from his knees. Every morning a young man would come inside with a healthy breakfast, much better than the ones at the camp, and then would hand him an itinerary of the day. Every morning, Dick was given thirty minutes to eat. Every morning, Dick would finish and then get up and walk that long stretch of steel to a weight room where he would begin by warming up and then working out for an hour. Every morning.

Every morning.

Every morning.

One morning, Sasha and Marcus stopped coming.

One morning, Dick began to forget what the manor looked like.

One morning, Dick became afraid.

His memory began to have spots in it. He couldn't recall how long he'd been in the compound or how long he'd been in the military before that. Had it been 7 months? 2 months? A year? He couldn't tell, and did not know how to. He remembered lots of training and faces and Sargent Major Spera and Eleanor and Jackson. There were clearer faces and names, like Bruce and Damian and Jason, Tim, and Barbara. He remembered Nightwing, of course, because how could he forget Nightwing, Batman, and Robin? Dick wondered, struggling to think, where the memory had gone. It didn't feel right. It felt inherently wrong, like something vital was missing and he couldn't figure out what it was.

Dick mind, his thoughts, seemed off to him… like he wasn't the one thinking completely and that someone else's words had been put into his head like code, like a computer. When Amanda Waller told him to do things, it felt mechanical. Some moves Dick learned at the facility felt mechanical and wrong and soon the mechanics of his body loosened and suddenly everything became on fluid motion. Dick's mind moved quickly, with such a fast pace his arms and legs seemed to have a difficult time catching up.

Some of the things he learned were wrong; they were lethal. Dick Grayson was not a lethal person. But Nightwing could be. Dick wasn't… or, at least, he tried not to be. Lately it felt as if everything were blending. Nightwing seemed aggressive… and Dick Grayson blinked harshly and sought to look past the haze in his head, so that the aggressiveness would not consume him. Dick Grayson moved through the fights with no mask; he was stripped, exposed, and seen through with critical lenses that watched his breaths, his movements, his thoughts.

The eyes Dick felt everywhere were one his back, his chest, his hands, his mind. He could not think and feel safe; the code… the programs felt intrusive. His mind did not feel safe.

Maybe that's where the memories went, when whatever this code was, this program, went into his head it was like a virus and was wiping Dick clean of anything that was not a sequence of movements his body could make, a sequence of plans he could think through, or a sequence of ideas he could develop. A virus. A virus in his brain.

Soon, Dick could not remember what the manor could have ever looked like.

Dick knew, of course, who lived in this manor but he could not distinguish what brick was used to make it, or if it had a grand staircase. He did not remember those gardens or his room. Virus. Virus. Virus.

What was Haley's Circus?

What did the term Team mean to him?

Empty. Empty, Empty, Empty. Virus.

It ate at his mind. But why? Why? Where did it come from? Dick couldn't remember going anywhere to get this virus. But, then again, his memory seemed to only remember movements and fights. He was angry a lot. Dick felt the power he held in his hands… the power these people, Amanda Waller, were giving him… made him feel good.

But why…

Why?

* * *

><p>The next day, Dick woke up in a different room chained to a bed that was uneven, so that his head was below his feet. He was wet, and he was gasping for breath.<p>

Confusion struck him. How did he get here? How did this happen? Dick couldn't remember coming in here and being strapped to the bed.

"Shit, he's waking up!"

He heard the clanging of metal.

"Leave him."

He knew that voice; that was Amanda Waller.

It was just then that Dick's head snapped. A band, the virus, was blown away by all the pieces sitting there together. He could he not of seen it?

"You!" he yelled, struggling against the chains. "This… this is where my memories—."

"Is going? Waller stated, smirking slightly as she stood over him. Dick felt himself nod.

"Yes, that hadn't been expected at first but we took it in stride. You've noticed your memory failing? What can't you remember?"

I… the manor, my home. How long I've been here. It feels like weeks… but… I know that's wrong. Every day I wake up and I feel like it's been years."

"Nine months, Mr. Grayson, as of last week. You've been here two months. It's not bad, we're ahead of schedule. You waking up just now… we'd hoped we could go through this procedure without you realizing it."

Dick tugged at his chains helplessly.

"Mr. Grayson, do you know why you were chosen? Why Sasha and Marcus and other the rest didn't make it?"

Dick let his arms fall to his side. He shook his head.

"Mr. Grayson you showed us many things that would aid us in this war. We are making the person who would become the bringer of death. Have you ever heard of Emily Mort? She was a French poet who wrote a quite different perspective of death that I find rather fascinating. Miss Mort believed that Death, as in the capital 'D' death, did not necessarily collect souls but in fact collected all the laughter any one persons had. The more laughter you had, the more likely you were to gain heave and the less… well, if you laughed less you'd have probably already been through hell, and can certainly do that again. So the good, the happy, they went to heaven. And the evil, the angered, went to hell."

"And what about the lonely, or the happy who laughed less? Or the angered who laughed to be cynical or the evil who laughed for enjoyment? And the good who were depressed or the bad who were the hopeful? What about them?" Dick asked.

"Mr. Grayson," Waller began, smirking, "where death and life are involved, there are always shades of grey. Mr. Grayson, you will the death that collects from the grey, but from the black too. Forget the white, forget the good… no one is good. Everyone has sinned."

Dick lunged forward angrily, and the chains clattered and broke his skin but he didn't care. "Does that mean you'll purge everyone, the whole world?"

Waller laughed. "No, no… there are innocents. Mr. Grayson, Richard, you'll be an assassin. This program was created to wipe out the Biter. You were chosen Richard. You'll go in… and you'll be that decider. Emily Mort was wrong, but I found it fascinating either way. Death does not decide from laughter or from happiness; death is random, but it is precise. That is why war is so awful Richard, it is random but precise… it kills anyone, but it is precise so that we see the effect. Do you know why we fear the thought of aliens, Mr. Grayson? Because we are afraid they will do to use what we would to them. And, dear soldier, what else could be more frightening than humanity?"

Dick said nothing, his face screwed in thought. A killer… that explained his aggression, his anger. It explained the blocks of memory… images flashed through his head of being dunked head first into a jar of water and a voice above him telling him that he needed to forget. Forget what? Everything; voices, peoples, names, sights and sounds. And then to remember fights, a movements and strategic plans. A warrior… an assassin.

He looked at Waller… anger on his face. "You're… changing me…"

"Yes, Mr. Grayson. But you signed up for it. In the next few weeks you won't know anything anymore, you'll be… who we want. You will not be Richard Grayson, you'll wipe away your own name. And so, for the last time, I'd like you to meet Slade Wilson."

Dick's eyes widened and he struggled on the chain, but a cloth of chloroform covered his mouth. Dick struggled and breathed in the drug. His vision began to fade as the large steel door behind Amanda Waller began to open and a man with whom Dick was far too familiar with stood behind it.

And the last thing he heard before his vision and hearing faded completely was Slade's voice. "Hello, Nightwing."

And that's when all hell broke loose.

* * *

><p><strong>[Wayne Manor:]<strong>

* * *

><p>Bruce couldn't ever recall a time when the Manor had been so quiet. Ever since Dick had left, the Manor had an eerie silence to it, as if you'd expect the twenty-four year old to once again pop out of nowhere and throw something at you. The Manor hadn't, of course, been this quiet since Dick left the first time at fifteen and then once again a few years later when he moved to Blüdhaven. The loudness returned when Jason came and then soon after with Tim, who was more silent than the other two but enjoyed blasting his music. Damian was, out of all the boys, the quietest, and enjoyed retreating into the nooks and crannies of the Manor that Bruce had long forgotten and hadn't seen since he was a boy.<p>

The quietness had struck Bruce about a week ago, when he was sitting in his study with no more to do than he ever had and the sudden thought of the ward he'd lost. It had certainly come of a shock to them, as well as the people of Gotham, and there wasn't much they could do but wait for the regret and sadness to pass. Dick's infallibility, or whatever faith they'd had in him, had been broken and shattered by the very metal shards that killed him. They had never seen Dick as one able to die, especially not in something as simple as a war, because he'd survived this long with numerous scars, both physically and mentally, and it seemed he couldn't fail. Bruce vaguely remembered Barbara sharing some quote by some author from him. It said that it was a "treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person" and whomever this author was, Bruce couldn't agree more.

And yet, that is what their lives, his life, revolved around. He pretended to be something more than human, an invisible yet well-known being that stalked the corrupt at night in the city.

He held up Dick's infallibility. He couldn't ever see his son dying, because, well, why would he? Then again, why would his parents have died? Bruce worried about Dick's death, of course, it's what caused Dick to leave when he was fifteen. But it appeared one day that Dick wouldn't die; out of all his sons, despite their constant battering, Dick had been there and Bruce had gotten used to the idea of Dick always being there, and now that he wasn't… it was wrong.

And quiet; it was very quiet. It felt like madness was falling around Bruce, but it was a peaceful and gentle madness and not the kind of mad that was like insane, but the type of mad that made you sad you couldn't do anything.

It was the type of sad that was easily interrupted.

Bruce's head snapped up at the sound of the doorbell ringing. Alfred was, sadly, in bed sleeping. Lately, the old man seemed to be taking very long breaks, and so Bruce was forced to do the things he normally asked Alfred if he could help with anyway.

Bruce stood up and walked from his office to the main foyer of the Manor. He stared, for one passing moment, at the banister in longing. He walked to the door and opened it slowly to a sight Bruce had never expected and, in this case, would have been confused at seeing. Before him was a tall woman in a Dress Uniform. Her dark hair was pulled into a very tight bun and her almost Arabic looking eyes stared at Bruce very intensely. From the tip of her right eye to the bottom of her jaw line was a very deep, fleshy scar. It looked like she'd been burned from that side and Bruce wondered if her entire right side was burned as well.

Bruce cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, we've already gotten the notification, but thank you." He began to close the door, but the woman shot out her hand and for a moment her intrusive looking eyes wavered into fear.

"Please, I know. I'm here to talk about Richard," she ushered.

Bruce stared at her a moment before opening the door. "You knew Dick?"

She looked at him, briefly, for a moment in confusion and for a second Bruce questioned his momentary trust. "Oh, uh… Dick, right. He did say he was called that. Sorry, um Jackson and I called him Richard."

Bruce still hadn't let her in. He paused. "You are?"

The woman straightened slightly. "Eleanor, I was in Richard's unit. We were good friends. It's why I'm here actually, there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Bruce nodded, staring at her intently, and opened the door wide open. Leading Eleanor his office, Bruce sat her down and returned with a simple cup of tea. Alfred liked to prepare ahead of time in case he couldn't be there.

Once they'd settled in, Bruce closed the door and went to sit at his desk. Underneath, he clicked a small recording device that would record their conversation for later use. Of course, the security cameras already in the office would capture the visual, but the sound on them could vary at best.

Eleanor looked uncomfortable sitting in the office with her tea. She sat straight and didn't touch the sides of the large plush velvet chair. She held her hands and the cup of tea in between her legs. Her eyes searched the room, but not for anything harmful, simply because the mastery of it all caused her to be quite impressed. Eleanor had never been in anyplace so lavishly decorated. She had, of course, seen pictures but nothing like this. On both walls were floor to floor shelves full of books and various knick-knacks. The ceiling was easily 20 ft high. The floor was hardwood, but what type of wood Eleanor did not know. Bruce's desk was some sort of dark wood and behind it was a nice leather lay-z boy. The computer and holograms on the desk as well as the chair Bruce himself was sitting in did not match the surrounding at all, as if Bruce did not want to change all of it because he was afraid, or because changing it would mean forgetting. Across from the desk and the lay-z boy, sat two tall plush velvet chairs, one of which Eleanor herself sat in.

"So, you're here to talk about Di—er, Richard?"

Eleanor set her tea down on the little coffee table between the chairs. "Yes, Mr. Wayne. I, uh, well… I was in the same unit with Richard. In fact, we spent most of our time together, along with another friend named Jackson. Richard was… one of the kindest people I have ever met Mr. Wayne."

Bruce nodded, and decided against correcting her against his own name. "Before we begin discussing Richard, Mrs.?—."

"Berne. Eleanor Berne. But I don't see how that has anything to do with Richard."

"It doesn't, but before we discuss my ward I'd like to know who I am discussing him with."

Eleanor sat there in a stunned silence for about two minutes before opening her mouth in protest. "I don't believe we've got to talk about me, at all."

"Likewise, I don't have to discuss my son with a stranger," Bruce backlashed, sitting there with a smirk-like smile across his face. It seemed out of place.

Eleanor reluctantly gave in, her shoulders falling as she relaxed. She hadn't realized she had been so tense. "I… I live in the Gotham suburbs, it's where I'm from. Westlake actually."

"I've heard of it," Bruce replied. Hell, he'd driven through it.

Eleanor nodded seriously. "Yeah it's a pretty nice neighborhood. My mother is Israeli, and she was Jewish but then she converted to Catholicism and then met my dad."

"Berne isn't Israeli…"

Eleanor laughed. "No, heh, it isn't. It's Irish. So my mom is from Israeli and my dad's from Ireland and then here I am, one of the weirdest mixes ever. I, uh, grew up in Gotham but never received much of the trouble the city provided, and still does provide, so we were safe most of the time. I went to a private school, and was even homeschooled. I was drafted into the Military, like Richard. Is that all?"

"Yes," Bruce replied. "That's good. Now, what is it you want to talk about?"

Eleanor breathed deeply. "Dick isn't dead, he's alive."

* * *

><p><strong>[DISCLOSED LOCATION]<strong>

* * *

><p>It had been several days, how many he had no clue, since he had seen Slade. The man was always there, always pulling the strings. It wasn't as if Dick would ever escape him, even in the darkest places of the Earth, the places where Dick was tortured ruthlessly by his own goddamn government, Slade was there, behind it all.<p>

He knew, actively, what they were doing to him. Some days, Dick knew very little of his life and sat there in the corner of his white room crying and screaming and searching for the lost files of memory that just weren't there. Other days, he sat there wondering what he would forget next. First it was the manor, then it was his school. Unimportant things would disappear like what his keys to his apartment looked like or what type of phone he had. He just knew that he had them. The scary thing was when he could not remember faces. Sometimes, it was Damian. He supposed that was because he was the most recent person in his life that he'd come to care about the most. The kid… sometime he was a brother, other times a son and when that face was gone there was only a memory of a boy with a name he held and no face to match it to.

It was frightening.

Dick new what they, what Slade, was doing. He just didn't know how the end result would be used, or hell, what it even was. Would he remember at all? Or would everything, just like Damian's face, and the manor just disappear off with the blink of his eyes and gaps in his memory. Some days they would let him remember, but he desperately wished he could forget them.

The first thing they did was deliver his food and he would eat for thirty minutes. Then the door would open and two men would come in and drag him out and he'd be pulled to a room and either strapped to a board and lowered. Then they would pour water down his face and whisper things into his head. Or the other effect, which seemed to work the most, they would stuff a bag over his head and dunk him into the water. Those were the days where he'd wake up the next morning and forgot what coffee was or where New York City was located.

Dick began to fear the days where he would forget Damian and Tim's faces permanently, and when manor would just become a word with no connotation. He feared the day when Bruce W. meant Bruce Willis, and when Gotham was just a place on the map.

Dick wasn't particularly fond of recalling memories anymore, because sometimes he'd wake up with them gone and he'd try to remember something that wasn't there. It was like a virus, a glitch in his brain. Sometimes it loaded and sometimes it took forever to load, and then yet again sometimes it wouldn't load at all. His brain had suddenly turned into Internet Explorer. Great.

][][][

Dick woke up without remembering having fallen asleep; it was a repetitive process. You'd wake up with remembering laying down to sleep and you'd be disorientated and alone, generally, and there was nothing you could do.

This time, though, there was someone with him. They sat across from him with a key in their hand. Behind them was a large door and the door shimmered as if it couldn't stay still and it shifted between large old doors that Dick couldn't place and doors that looked like they belonged in a circus. He couldn't place them and Dick felt this was wrong.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The person stood up with a smile. She had dark skin and dark air that was pushed back with gel. She wore a pin stripe suit. "Mr. Grayson, you don't know who I am?"

Dick shook his head. "No, but—."

"Mr. Grayson, do you know where you are?"

"No, but—."

"Do you know who you are?"

"Di— Richard Grayson… but that's—."

"Good, nothing else?"

"No." Dick gave up trying to speak.

"And are you angry?"

Dick hadn't noticed it until the woman said it, but he did feel something stirring in the back of his head. He felt angry toward something, and it was a something he could not explain. He wanted to take out his anger on something… no, someone. He looked up and nodded.

"Good, good," the woman inquired. "You are going to answer a series of questions for us Mr. Grayson, can you do that?"

Dick nodded. They asked him who the President was and capitals of cities and his knowledge of the military. They asked what his purpose was and why he was there and it had taken Dick a few moments to come up with the correct answer to his problem. The anger inside dick stirred as he answered and he wasn't trying to keep in hold.

"I'm here to end a war," he answered, almost mechanically.

The woman nodded at him. "Yes, you are. And what are you?"

"I'm… I'll to kill Peter the Biter. That's my mission, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Your name is no longer Dick Grayson, I want you to wipe the useless information, such as your name, from your head. You don't need it. I want you to pick another name, something we can call you by. Something no one will know."

Dick paused. No name? That sounded wrong… "No name… I have no name."

Suddenly there was another voice that spoke to Dick from behind him. The voice sent shivers up his spine and it seemed to make him angrier, he wanted the voice to fight. It was too deep, too evil... it was _wrong_. And it was so plainly wrong that Dick wasn't sure what to do. He felt as if he couldn't trust it. Dick slowly turned around to the voice, angry.

"Close your eyes," the man repeated. He wore a mask split straight down the middle in black and orange. Dick found the name in his head; Slade. Evil. But… a friend, at least… an ally. Dick stared at him further when his body lurched and he felt his mind suddenly race. He found himself calculating exactly how to take Slade down. Dick suddenly knew Slade's height and weight and the weak points in his armor.

"I…"

"Don't worry about it," the woman said. "We can tell you everything, but we need to test this. Erase your name, it's useless and you won't need it anymore."

"Close your eyes," Slade cut in, "and work through your mind. You can do it." His voice sounded almost caring and so Dick slowly closed his eyes.

It was fascinating.

His mind was like a computer, each memory was like a file separately organized so that it was easily accessible. There was one file, in the back of his mind. Richard John Grayson… Dick Grayson. He stared at it for a moment, and began to reach for it. The name meant nothing to him, it held no connotation it was simply a useless file. Would it help him in his mission? No… but…

He swept it away.

He opened his eyes.

The Woman, who was still in the dark and so he could not see, leaned forward. "What is your name?"

He stared at her. "Name… the definition is something that is used as a clear identifier of a species, part of species, or a particular organism. I am human, and I am a particular organism of the human species and yet I lack a name."

"Think of one, think of your mission and what you will do," Slade inquired.

He paused a moment. "Renegade."

Renegade stood up, closing his hands in a tight fist. "I am Renegade, which is my name. I know no other, and I never will."

The woman stood up and stepped out of the darkness; Renegade knew her immediately as Amanda Waller. He saluted instantly. Immediately, his body calculated how to take her down. Height, weight, and pressure points were now ingrained into his brain. Equations and strategies were suddenly popping up in his vision and appearing all over Waller's body, as if those ways would be the best ways to take her down. On the left eye, a red sign flash WARNING. Renegade turned slowly to look at Slade; the equations began to pop up again and there was the warning, but instead of flashing WARNING, the sign in his vision said EXTREME DANGER.

Renegade turned to look back at Waller. They all stood there for a moment before Waller turned away and gestured for Renegade to follow. The metal doors opened and they walked, with Slade following, down a long loosely light hallway. Renegade shook his head as they passed a white room with a single bed and window in it. It seemed familiar but… it did not. He turned away; useless. He wiped the file from his computer.

They walked into a low room then with a single map on it that held most of Russia and Europe, as well as sections of the US. Different countries were either one color or another, green or red. Most of Russia and sections of Europe were red, while the US and the other half of Europe was green. The map was obviously holographic because just then it shimmered and part of Russia went green. There was a small metal table with an arsenal of weapons. As Renegade looked at them, his vision was filled with stats of each weapon; what each one did, how you used them, and what they were made out of. Renegade turned to the map and touched it. "The war, I presume."

"Yes," Waller replied. "The map shows by satellite what lands are Biter's and what are ours."

"Excuse me for interrupting," Renegade began to Waller before turning to Slade, "why do you care about the war? I can access your file—," Renegade tapped his head, "and you're an assassin. The hell do you care whether or not we win?"

Renegade could almost feel Slade narrowing his eyes behind the mask. The man stepped forward; "I care, as much as I can, because despite all the crap this country has put me through, I still live here and fight for it when I'm threatened with it. If not, I will do my best to make it mine. Innocents in the times of wars are like children born into an unwilling family. I know just how that feels, now shut up, Renegade, and take your orders."

Renegade narrowed his eyes and stared at the war. Both Waller and Slade could see he was in deep thought and briefly, for a moment, Waller could have sworn she'd seen computer code reflected in his eyes. Renegade closed his eyes then and breathed, then turned to look at the two. "My mission?"

"Infiltrate Biter's forces, ultimately, but before that, we need you in DC, working with a French Delegate, a friend of ours who was a sponsor in creating you. He'll give you the paperwork you need to continue forward. From there, we'll transmit your mission via wireless access. You're a weapon Renegade, you'll move swiftly and quietly as you can, try not to attract attention to yourself."

Renegade nodded and moved forward to the table, grabbing a pair of escrima sticks. He analyzed them for a moment and then grinned. "That, my dear, will never be the problem."

* * *

><p>Bruce blanched. "Excuse me?"<p>

Eleanor shook her head and stood up. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but he isn't dead. Richard, well, he's alive."

It wasn't that Bruce wanted to believe Dick was ultimately dead, because he didn't, but living several months without the thought of Dick being alive had taken its toll, and Bruce simply couldn't come to terms that there was a possibility. In the beginning, it wasn't an issue; Dick had to be alive, but then after weeks of searching (weeks that turned into months) and it was confirmed; Richard John Grayson was dead. It had hit the League hard, and especially the Team, who had been on "break" for the better part of the last few months. The idea that Dick was alive seemed all too good, too easy in a time like this.

But he couldn't stop himself now; that was the problem with Batman, a case was a case no matter what. "How so? How do you know?"

Eleanor sighed. "Two things I noticed. First, Dick never got on the plane with us to go to Russia—," here, she must've not realized it, Eleanor gently touched the burned side of her face, "—he met me at the site where we were leaving, but he never got on. In fact, he was in his Dress Uniform, you know, all fancy as if he were going to a banquet and not to fight. He told me that he wasn't coming, because they wanted to hold him back for a few more techniques. I mean, that was a lie, Dick was easily the best soldier they'd ever seen in a long time. And when we talked, he talked as if I was the one going to die, like he was never going to be shipped off after us. He talked too calmly for someone going to death. And he told me, and I won't forget this, "All war is deception—Sun Tzu" and that I needed to remember that. Then he said "for of all sad words, of tongue or pen, the saddest are these—."

"It might have been," Bruce finished.

Eleanor nodded.

"It was his favorite quote," Bruce inquired, "because his mother used to say it to him all the time. When she and her husband died, Dick took the quote to heart."

"What else did he tell you?"

Eleanor thought for a moment. "He said "you saw me not go on, I never came" and I was supposed to remember that. I can't believe I forgot it, because right after that he said that war was deception."

Bruce frowned and then nodded. "Dick's alive."

_To be continued…_


	3. Dick Grayson Doesn't Kill

**Title: The Draft **

**Note: Please note that this story is an AU. Ages and times have been mixed up but aren't necessarily clarified in the story, if you want an explanation on the dates (Years, Days, Months, etc.) you can a) leave a review and ask or b) send me a PM. The concept in this AU can and should be completed in about 4 to 5 **_**very**_** long chapters. There will be **_**VERY SLOW**_** updates, due to my being in school and extra-curricular activities. **

**I has been a year and two months since the end of the last chapter, this chapter begins at the those two months. **

**DICK GRAYSON DOESN'T KILL. **

* * *

><p><strong>WASHINGTON DC.<strong>

* * *

><p>Washington was pretty during the summer. Geographically, Maryland was considered a middle-state, but it was below the Mason-Dixon Line and therefore was the South. The summers felt like that. It was hot out, 90° with 97% humidity. The air was hot and sticky and the breeze felt good when it blew. The city bustled beyond the marble buildings and 200 year old buildings. A man in a polished suit was standing on the corner of an unnamed street corner, a scowl on his face as people moved around him. He glanced at the time and then across the street to a café underneath a hotel room. At exactly 11:59 AM, the man walked across the street, ignoring the cars that honked at him angrily, and stood at the café. At 12:00 PM, he sat down.<p>

At 12:01, he ordered a glass of water.

At 12:03 another man in a suit walked to the café and looked around before spotting the man sitting there with his glass.

"Are you Mr…?"

"Mr. Sicarius. Jason Sicarius." the man answered, with a very delicate Italian accent.

"Ah, yes, I'm Mr. James. K. Hostia, we're supposed to be meeting upstairs, if I recall the email."

"Yes, I'm aware," Sicarius replied, "the heat has gotten to me, and I'm a little parched. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if we moved upstairs to the room."

"Not at all, I've already reserved the room. I hope you don't mind Chardonnay."

"One of my favorites," Sicarius replied, standing up and straightening his jacket. He followed Hostia into the air conditioned café and up into the hotel room. The building was barely even four stories tall, but stood out for its modern design. The inside was just as lavish, decorated with ornate Pop art paintings and sleek white furniture. The room was designed like the cover of a magazine, beyond the two beds was a glass-framed balcony that overlooked the café and street. On a little stainless steel and glass table sat a glass of Chardonnay and orange slices dipped in chocolate.

Sicarius laughed. "Do you treat all your associates like this?"

The other man shrugged, "Only the ones that can kill me."

There was a pause.

And then both men laughed.

Sitting down, both arranged the needed paperwork. Wine was poured, a slice of orange went missing, and then they began.

* * *

><p>Renegade was now in Blüdhaven City. It was dark and gory, with looming buildings and frightened citizens. He loved it. After a few months of training with Slade, and then working with Waller, Renegade had moved to gaining new sources and assets for the Crime Capital of the world, but then he found out that the Crime Capital of the world had a hero, and so he was in the Haven. Renegade had to avoid heroes as much as he could, there was no point building up a world of criminals to ask from when a man dressed as a large bat could kill (metaphorically of course) those assets the moment they began to work for him.<p>

After meeting in DC, he got the info he needed for his mission from the French Delegate, and was moving to creating himself an empire with he could spy on any Russian mobsters who liked the Haven and Gotham, especially for their lack of faithful officers, whom Renegade found pathetic, but in this case, helpful. Traitorous cops gave him a good feeling, like even the best of people could turn bad, that blood could boil and that minds could snap. It was a good feeling, to be perfectly honest, and even though Renegade had the sneaking suspicion that perhaps, just perhaps, the best people could never turn. Maybe he was wrong; Ren would never know.

He was perched on top of a tall corporate building, sitting lazily on the side as if death were nothing; it was nothing, and should Renegade die he would find himself almost relaxed. Ever since his… creation (who he'd been before his awakening didn't bother Ren, because why would he have volunteered for the spot unless he truly meant it?), Renegade found he was always tense. At first, the assassin couldn't decipher between whether he was expecting to be attacked, or if he just simply could not relax. In the end, over a cup of coffee, he mused it was both.

* * *

><p>Jason had gone undercover about a week ago— already he felt this was far too easy. Too much information was piling up from his sources, flooding in from his assets; but that was it, a lot of Jason's sources and assets had been frozen, with nowhere to go or move. It was as if they'd been frozen by some unseen shadow who was just a little too uncomfortable with the assets' snooping. From what Jason could tell this unseen shadow was new. It seemed though, it only looked that way, there was no way he was new to the game. He was trained, and even Oracle herself claimed that he guy was almost too good to be true, too trained. The man was just too good to be some unnamed criminal off the street. So, the guy either had some large plan in mind, or he was just winging it. Oracle and Jason decided it was both.<p>

Even though it had been months since Dick's death, Jason still felt devastated. It wasn't like he could blame the villains, it was in fact the governments fault for Dick's death. Jason Todd had always had a death wish; Richard Grayson had not had a death wish. It wasn't like Jason wished he was dead in Dick's place; even though he had a death wish, it did not exactly mean he actually wanted to die, and it was at the very least an act of some sort, and so it was determined that Jason was far too selfish to switch places with a dead man. Even then, Dick did not decide to die; Jason still thought back to all those months ago when Tim and Bruce told him that Dick was gone from them, and then the meeting when Dick was officially declared dead in their family happened. Jason felt resentment at first— why did Dick have to go and die?

It wasn't fair.

What he had said back there, about Dick being the only person Jason cared about, was very true. Jason loved Dick like the brother he had too late.

Jason wondered at times that if maybe had he been the older brother, perhaps he would have been as good to Dick as Dick had to him. The answer, ultimately no, was a harsh one to realize. It was only after Jason found himself jealous of the "Golden Boy" that Jason figured he was just not as good of a person as Dick Grayson was. He could never have the faith in humanity that Dick did, his past… his life, simply did not allow it. The realization had been accepted roughly, but he embraced it, as well as had it repeatedly pointed out to him by Tim Drake (or rather, the "Replacement"). Dick's life had been everything Jason had wished his own to be, and so he tried (and failed) to recreate it, but then he learned about Dick's life and felt pretty good about his own.

Jason may have lived on the streets of Gotham, but he had been content, for the most part. It wasn't the best, but nothing had been ripped away from him; in fact, it had been given to him quite by accident. But Jason's respect for Dick did not derive from his appreciation of his horrible life, but in fact Dick's lack of pity for Jason. Dick had pity, of course (everyone more or less did, despite Jason's best attempts to kill it) for Jason but it was more a charitable pity. The sort of "I'm here and I'll help but other than that you're on your own with what I give you". Dick knew that Jason could and would take care of himself, and he was a very able-bodied man. Jason respected that. So yeah, Jason gave a shit about Dick, which was basically just a shortcut to saying he cared about Dick. Very much. Jason was his own person, and his life was not Dick Grayson's, not matter what Jason had tried to do.

It was in the event of Dick's death that Jason relapsed (to the fact that he did care for Dick Grayson); the world didn't need a Red Hood but it, and Blüdhaven, did need a Nightwing. But still, seven months later, Jason had yet to touch the costume in what seemed to be fear. Jason, for weeks, denied it, but as the year began to drag on and time passed, it was only easily recognizable. Jason had gone undercover, having come so close to putting the costume that he's avoided Dick's old apartment for a week. The undercover mission had been granted by Oracle, and was being monitored by Oracle and so, in extent, it was being watched by Bruce.

The mission was the track down this new guy on the underground (Blüdhaven term for the criminal's community) that Oracle believed to be some sort of trained asset to gain sources for a boss. They determined, without Bruce's help, he was focusing on areas where he could gain a lot of helpful sources, Blüdhaven was good for that because a lot of the Nation's criminal communities used the city (nicknamed by Dick as the Haven, even though it was no such thing) went through there the get their names cleared and make money disappear into some account in Switzerland somewhere. The guy was smart.

Jason and Oracle were waiting for him to slip somehow, leave a hair, some blood; they wanted to wait for anything they could get a DNA scan for, but nothing showed up. So, Jason was posing as some high deal "Blacker" who could clear names of a list and registry in no time. One week later and there was nothing. They had to drag together an alias in about two weeks' time, and then stick Jason out there and hope for the best. It was sloppy, too sloppy and for the past two days Jason thought that they were ruined from ever catching this guy.

Jason was sitting on the side of street corner with a newspaper, one page ripped and lying on the ground by a beer. His clothes were too nice for someone living in the Havens' slums, but too poor to live in someplace other than perhaps the rich area of Gotham. It would set off some signs, but high profile clients from Gotham seeking to wipe their names clean would notice the look right away.

It took about two hours for some kid that came out of an Express Store to walk up to him.

Jason let the newspaper fall. "May I help you?"

"Yeah, hey man I was hoping you could help me and a friend out," the kid stuttered, glancing around the street like his was from an alien planet.

"And who might this friend be? I don't just help anyone," Jason replied, lifting the newspaper back up and snapping the pages back into place.

"Uh, you're a blacker right?" The kid looked around again and pulled the old baseball cap on his head down low. It was a signal Jason couldn't believe kids were still doing anymore (then again, the kid wasn't much younger than him), all it meant was some big cash client was looking to do business to get his name off a blacklist.

"Sure am, can I get a name?"

The kid looked at him with piercing eyes. "David Morrsion Vattox."

Jason frowned, the name sounded unfamiliar.

"Alright, what list? Can't be on too many, but I gotta know the name if you want it to be right," Jason bargained.

"High profile," the kid replied steadily, "he's a Handler."

Jason blanched. That was unusual, usually most good, high profile handlers could stay off lists their entire career. He leaned forward. "Paperwork?" Outside of the interaction, if one was watching this a few streets down, it would just look like a kid and a guy talking a bit, handing over some paper as if the boy was simply an errand boy, and then they'd go on their way. It wasn't something that was unusual, and generally was used because police couldn't decipher from a criminal or civil interaction.

The kid looked down and swiftly pulled a manila folder stuffed with information. "And this has who was after him and how he got put it on?"

The kid shrugged. "No idea, I'm just the errand boy."

"Good, now leave it. Run away and go someplace where you won't go to Juvie," Jason implored. "Start over, 'cause I didn't." Then Jason abruptly stood up and walked away, tilting his baseball cap over his eyes. He could feel the kids' confused stare on his back, but Jason didn't care. Best warn them when they were young; or else they'd take up deals with too much pain in the end.

Jason walked down two blocks, turning sharply into zigzag alley way that would have made Paris proud. He found his motorcycle, left thankfully untouched, sitting on the wall beyond the view of the street. He slipped off the baseball cap and threw it to the side, even though he was fond of it, and instead traded the cap for a motorcycle helmet and his leather jacket. A red stripe set daringly across the middle, while Jason's favorite design, was set to show exactly who he was and before he slipped the helmet on, a domino mask was placed over his eyes. He quickly changed his ratty clothes for his work clothing, and then tossed the other clothes to the side. He'd gotten them from a thrift store; nothing worth stealing.

Sitting on the motorcycle he tightened his helmet and turned on the beast, letting it purr for a moment before he loudly revved the engine. A woman above him stuck her head out the window and screamed in Spanish but Jason ignored her and speed forward, opting to move out the way before things would get thrown at him.

As he sped through the streets of Blüdhaven, Jason felt an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, as if he was being watched.

"Computer," Jason told the helmet. "Scan surrounding area for threats."

"_Scanning." _

10… 20… 30… 40…

"_No threats found." _

Jason sped around a sleek Volvo and momentarily slowed down for a cop. Good, he thought verily, I don't want to deal with anyone right now. And in that moment, that when Jason heard the shrill honking of a horn and then heard simply nothing at all.

* * *

><p>Groggily, Jason sat up on the side of the road. He looked around blearily and blinked, trying to clear his vision. His motorcycle sat a little ways away, completely totaled. Smoke was rising from part of the vehicle and if Jason leaned over a little bit, he could see the shimmer of oil dripping. Shit. He quickly scanned the area and found civilians peeking their nosy little asses around to look at what happened. A large black SUV was flipped on the ground, and on top the expensive vehicle was a large dark silhouette. Jason could see the handle of swords coming from the figures back. He wanted to groan but, however, civilians first.<p>

"Clear the area!" he screamed, quickly taking off the helmet that was not muffling his voice. Pointing to one of the people on the sidewalk, Jason shouted, "Call the cops, now!"

"Isn't that one of Nightwing's hero friends?" Jason heard someone say, and for a moment he was thinking about how anyone would remember Nightwing even though he hadn't been spotted in Blüdhaven for about a year. The next moment was the sound of sirens howling in the distance and then the figure on top the SUV had jumped down and was now making his way toward Jason. He scrambled to stand up, and quickly went for his guns.

"Who are you?" he snarled. "What do you want?"

The man, he was too lean and muscular to be anything else, stopped several feet in front of Red Hood. He had neither his swords nor his two escrima sticks out. Instead, his hands sat loose by his side.

"Nothing much," the figure answered coolly.

"Yeah right. Who decides, 'hey, I'm going to slam an SUV into a guy with guns and demand absolutely nothing, for fun!'" Jason mocked. "An idiot, that's who. Tell me who you are or I'll shoot. Or, I guess, I can shoot you and then get questions later. Would that be easier?"

"You've been looking into my… collection."

Jason hesitated. "You're the guy stirring the underground, aren't you?"

The figure seemed to like the idea, because he straightened. "I'm glad someone is recognizing me for my talents."

Jason snorted. "Sure, yeah. What do you want?"

"For you to stop."

"I thought you liked people recognizing your talents?"

The man gave an eerie laugh. The sirens were growing closer. "Oh, I do. But only the ones who'll help me in return. As we can both see, you probably won't be very inclined into helping me. Guns pointed at the man you could be dealing with generally isn't a good sign the meeting is going well."

It took Jason a moment to realize what the man was implying. "You want me to join your criminal organization?"

The figure, who Jason couldn't fully see because of the smoke, laughed. "It's not a criminal organization. In fact, it's the opposite. It's much like the Justice League; contacts who'll help you out, for a price. But, you've gotten the idea, I'd like you. In fact, having you would be a grand addition to my cause. You're an anti-hero; you may be on the side of the angels, but you're a sinner like the rest of us. I've seen what you did years ago when you came up out of nowhere—," Renegade had simply studied several years' worth of news articles, reports, and Police records to get the information on the Red Hood he'd needed. "— and frankly, the Red Hood would be grand. You know how the Bat works, too."

"Wow you're dumb," Jason replied in mock awe. "I could just go and tell the Bat that you're on to him, right now actually." Part of the smoke cleared and Jason so a man slightly taller than him but only a little shorter than Bruce. He held himself like a former military man. His costume, all black with a harness like hold over his chest held his swords in place and connected to a grey utility belt in the side. On his thigh was a gun and knife harness, and also held escrima sticks. He wore a helmet that completely covered his face and connected to the rest of his suits. A red R, placed over the left side of his chest, caught Jason's breath.

"That's the plan. If you aren't coming with me, Renegade is telling you to stay out of his business. You've been warned."

And then a smoke pellet to the ground was all it took for the dumbass to escape.

Jason cursed as the smoke cleared. The sirens were almost there.

Shit.

* * *

><p>Waking up in Med Bay is never good. Waking up in Med Bay with two worried faces over you is worse.<p>

Admittedly, Bruce's worried face was between an "I could care less, it's your own fault" and "that was dumb, and now I'm here to fix it". Barbara's face was a genuine worried face. She wasn't one to cry a lot, and she didn't generally cry when someone got hurt but she would be very worried.

Jason groaned. "What? I didn't die did I?"

At the moment, Barbara relaxed and Bruce nodded reluctantly, as if confirming that Jason was alright.

"He's alright," Tim's voice said in the distance.

Slowly, Jason sat up. He was in the Batcave's Med Bay, lying on one of the two medical tables that occupied the space. His right side hurt, as well as his head, with a pounding headache threatening to burst his head open at any moment. "What happened?"

"Well, you were attacked," Tim replied sarcastically. He was sitting by the door of the glass prison, with his arms folded into his chest. He looked tired, or rather, like he didn't want to be there. Bored, probably.

"No shit. I mean what happened after that."

"Really?" Tim said in return.

"Enough," Bruce snapped. Of course Bruce's first words that Jason would hear would be one of scolding.

"What happened," Barbara cut in before the tension would rise further, "was that you blacked out right after Renegade left you. Sirens were cutting close. You're lucky Tim was there."

Jason looked at Tim and snorted. "I'd have preferred the cops."

"You're wanted for murder," Tim reasoned.

"Still would've preferred the cops."

Tim rolled his eyes.

"So I passed out, big deal. Why am I in Med Bay?"

"If you don't recall, there was an explosion. You've got a massive headache right?" Barbara replied nonchalantly, turning off a computer that held Jason's vitals. Jason didn't say anything.

"Yeah, thought so. Concussion, so no work for a few days. And one of your ribs is bruised, so have fun with that sucker. So no work. Oh, and you were bleeding pretty badly. So, still, no work. This seems to be a reoccurring pattern Jason and I think you should listen to it," Barbara stated all matter-of-factly.

"I'm getting the feeling I can't go Red Hood on everything."

"Bingo," she replied cheerily. "You can stay here a few days, help me research this Renegade guy."

"I can tell you one thing," Jason said, narrowing his eyes. "He's an asshole."

* * *

><p>Renegade quite liked manipulating people. Doing so allowed in a power rush and those made you feel so good. Oh man, it was like adrenaline but even better. You could make one single person do everything you wanted, only because of words you had said. Whomever said "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" and a liar. Words might not be physical (unless by the victim's own doing) but they were definitely mental. Words were dastardly, manipulative, and deadly. Hell, words had destroyed civilizations. Written words, thought words, sung words… all of them could destroy, could hurt.<p>

Renegade liked words.

Even as he sat in a ratty abandoned Subway system, not really listening to a report about the Russian Mafia, he admired the words being spoken. He liked manipulating people with words. The only reason the messenger was doing this was because Renegade made him. Because he manipulated him. Words were powerful, and language was ever better. Renegade could speak and interpret a good fifteen languages. Mandarin, Japanese, Spanish (Spain-Spanish, but also Mexican), Portuguese, German, French, Italian, Gaelic… the latter would've been his favorite, easily. Despite being a… more or less rough guy, Renegade could appreciate beauty. English was not a beautiful language. It was rough, and the pitches changed with every word, and their goodbye could mean goodbye forever, and not "till we meet again".

He stood up.

The messenger stopped talking abruptly, his eyes going wide.

"I'm going for a walk."

"Oh, um, yes, of course."

Renegade almost laughed at how frightened the man looked, and waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, you're not going to die." The thing was, Renegade hadn't really ever killed someone before. Fatal injured, yes, but not outright slash through the throat kill. He'd manipulated, blackmailed, cheated, and lied his way through the criminal world. And thus far, everything had been working smoothly (until the Bats got involved) with him using words. He didn't need to kill, not really. And sure, maybe a civilians got hurt in that bomb, but he'd checked the Hospital list after the incidents; no deaths relating onto the explosive device in Blüdhaven between Richard Street and Belmont Blvd. Injured horribly, limbs destroyed, familys in tears; but no deaths. For some reason, the fact comforted Renegade.

"Get the man a glass of water and a wet towel," Renegade stated, walking stiffly past the man, who eyed him with looks of thanks.

Renegade walked out of the little hole that he'd help develop and into the underground system of tunnels beneath the city. It was a part of the Sewage system that wasn't used by the city anymore, the Counsel deeming it "unfit for drainage due to lack of care" which basically meant they didn't want to keep it up to speed anymore with regulation, shut the section down and turned the surrounding area industrial, later building a layer of sewage and plumbing above the former system to accommodate newer buildings.

It was quiet down here. A lot of time to think about death.

Renegade didn't mind death. Well, there were areas he'd be willing to cross and others he'd kill anyone who'd cross that line. Children, mostly. He'd kill woman or man who'd stand up to him, whether they had the ability or not. He'd never kill civilians. They weren't apart of his mission. His mission was to infiltrate the Biter's group in Russia, kill him, and then end the war. The Government didn't care what he did between then and now, so Renegade figured he'd set up a nice little organization for him to come back to when he finished his mission.

And say he needed help in Russia. Look who's there. Hello, little group of fiend's.

Still, Renegade knew that he would have to leave for Russia soon and there wasn't anyone in his group that could effectively take care of operations in the US. Except for, of course, Red Hood. Renegade knew a lot about Red Hood, and he knew with the proper motivation one could make him take care of operations. Now that he knew Red Hood had no interest, however, it was an entirely different matter. He'd been going out on a limb there my gaining so much attention on the hope that the Hood would join him in his efforts. Of course, he'd had the sneaking suspicion (from where, he didn't know) that Hood wouldn't join him, because despite his criminal past, the Hood seemed to be going on a heroic streak. Renegade also figured that streak was due to Nightwing, Red Hood's seemingly older "brother" who was the oldest of Batman's partners. Sidekicks just didn't seem like the right word. Nightwing had been missing for a year or so now. Plus, now that the limb Renegade had been standing on was broken, Hood had probably alerted Batman and even possibly the League as to Renegade's actions. Not that he wasn't already probably being monitored.

He'd have to watch out for the Bat's, and in extension the Justice League. He knew that the League had a supposed Covert Operations Team that would infiltrate organizations and crime rings that the League couldn't deal with, or didn't have time to— that could be used to his advantage however. Renegade would have to be wary of them, because despite being a lethal weapon, he wasn't sure if he could handle some angry, super-powered hormonal teenagers with mommy and daddy issues. Then again, Renegade had been trained by Deathstroke and despite the man's almost fatherly approach toward Renegade, he (Deathstroke) had been able to handle Bane and Superman at the same time (this was a long time ago apparently).

Renegade had to be careful. Things had probably just gotten a helluva lot more complicated and he needed to see Waller… now.

* * *

><p>"<em>It's your turn to deal. I dealt the cards out last time!"<em>

"_No you didn't, I did. Remember? You sat there and complained that it's too complicated for you." _

_The smaller, younger boy leaned back in outrage. "No, I didn't! I know how to deal. Dad taught me how!" _

"_Alright then, so deal!" the older boy snapped back, though there was a slight smile on his face. It was, in fact, his turn to deal. _

_The younger boy hesitated, staring at the cards in the center of the table. Across from him was his older cousin of eight years (this made him sixteen, which was practically an adult) and his friend, who was his age, Raya. She stared at the cousins in awed bemusement, flustered that she hadn't dealt yet at all. Quickly, the younger boy snatched up the card begrudgingly and began to shuffle them haphazardly. His cousin leaned back in his chair, an old coco-cola box turned upside down, and grinned devilishly. _

"_You're doing it wrong," Raya chirped, staring at her friends calloused hands. _

"_No I'm not," the boy answered, though he paused in his shuffling. "You don't have to do shuffling the way John does it." _

"_But it's easier," Raya replied. _

"_For him," the boy replied. "Not for me. This way is easier for me." _

_As he dealt out the cards one by one, Raya shared a look with John, the boys cousin. He finished. _

"_All the chips are back in the center?" John asked, leaning over the two of them to make sure they weren't hoarding. _

"_Yes," they chorused, as if they were used to the kind of distrust John was displaying in front of their poker game. _

"_Good, good." _

_And they played. The boy, the first one, was the smartest out of all of them, and was very good with calculating and strategizing. Such abilities would be useless in this game of chance, however, even when all the right cards were played, because while John had checked the two eight year olds, they had never bothered to check John, the sixteen year old who found amusement in beating the two younger children in the game. Raya, who was smart in her own right and enjoyed simply the company, did not mind winning or losing much. The first boy, while not overly competitive yet, would begin to develop suspicions based on the fact that John kept losing even though, several weeks prior, the first boy had gone on a winning streak. He'd won two Crunch bars from his victories, which were plenty enough. _

_After a long amount of time, with chips occasionally falling onto the dirt ground and the first boy gritting his teeth a lot, John won. Again. _

_Even in a game played with children, a game of pure chance and strategic luck, the first boy could not escape human nature. _

_No,_ Richard_ Grayson would always be on the opposite side of the table, playing a rigged game of life. _

* * *

><p>"We sent the team on a Recon Mission to infiltrate an abandoned government building that we believed was a stopping point for various drugs and illegal substances. Robin infiltrated their computer systems for any info where the drugs were coming from, and it turns out the "drug cartel" was a cover for various secret government jobs. People came her to get information from, get this, one Amanda Waller."<p>

"Amanda Waller?" Wonder Woman asked.

"Yes," Flash answered seriously. "Her. She owns her own little anti-hero sect of the government." He sighed. "Also got the Hero Registration Act signed. Can you imagine the civil war that would have erupted from that? It was a close call."

"Have you told Batman yet?" the Amazon asked, aware of his previous encounters with the Government agent.

"Not yet, but I imagine Robin's already told him. He hasn't yet uncoded or whatever it's called the files and he thinks it might take time without developing a hack."

"So it could be several days before we find out whatever Waller is passing on… info-wise," Wonder Woman sighed.

"That's right. And we weren't even sure if we should open them— classified Government files, Diana. That's illegal," Flash replied, shaking his head. "We open that and they find out, the Justice League is going to be in some serious trouble. We can't just go around downloading and reading Government files because they have to do with someone we don't particularly agree with."

Wonder Woman grimaced. "I'm aware—."

"Robin and I have already hooked up his drive to the Batcomputer. We are cracking the information now, though it will take up to a week. Scrambling the Serial Code and various signals will allow us to remain anonymous so that they don't trace the signal back to my computer. We've disabled any trackers or possible Trojans, but there's no saying there aren't any hidden in the system." Batman's appearance, while less than unusual, startled the two other heroes.

Wonder Woman rolled her eyes. "So you're saying we are doing something illegal?"

"I am," Batman answered truthfully. "Batman is doing these things independently from the Justice League. Should they find out, you all will remain blameless."

"Bruce," Wonder Woman began seriously, before he shot her a look for using his real name in costume. "_Batman, _don't you think that's unfair? We can't let you do that."

"It's too late. Waller's been known to take heroes and or people that she doesn't like so that she can control them for herself. Remember the Suicide Squad?"

"Of course," Wonder Woman replied dryly.

"Exactly. She took villains, gave them a chance to be free and then channeled their anger towards us in a way for the governments purpose. Diana, imagine her during a War. Taking a villain or hero for the purpose of serving her own little personal army for the sake of beating, say, Peter the Biter."

Wonder Woman and Flash glanced at each other before looking back at Batman.

"Bru— Batman, you keep saying hero? No one has gone missing…"

"Someone died," Batman said.

"Nightwing," Flash sighed, his body relaxing.

"Batman, Bruce… he died," Diana said calmly, wincing slightly. That boy was her nephew.

"Come with me, I've got something to tell you."

After they had gathered the rest of the board, they came into the meeting room and sat down in their respective places. At the head of the U-shaped table stood Batman, cowl off, with a grim expression on his face. Diana was glaring at him unsettlingly, as if coming up with multiple scenarios of what he was going to say. Clark Kent, or rather Superman, looked as confused as possible while still remaining one of the most frightening things in the room. Across from them was a majority of the League. Green Arrow looked oddly pleased with himself. Meanwhile, Black Canary looked royally pissed off.

As Bruce presented them with the information of the Team's recent expedition, each grew slowly more solemn. The idea of Amanda Waller during any sort of crisis was enough to get them sorted into a sense of unity. Waller, because of her influence in the government, might not be enough to shut down the League, but enough to at least give her a fighting chance at crippling them and/or their image.

Waller had disappeared a few months back with the idea that she could end the war. It was well-known that Peter the Biter was a very influential man and simply attacking him head on was not going to do much but give him more incentive to gain more power. So she worked below her superiors, using her influence and assets in the military to pick a suitable candidate for a program that had various support from, not only two of her bosses, but many people across the country. One congressman, whose name was tainted by a scandal from a month ago (at the time) had supported and even funded the facilities for such a project. He found that he could get reelected by helping to end the war. The specifics of how he did not care, not until, after everything was going to be revealed, he found that it would not help and would in fact put him in jail.

No one was told anything in detail, only those who were closely linked to Waller knew any amount of valuable information that could be used against her or the program. The plan that was shown to most military officials was one that was easily covered up. They did not know anything aside from the fact that they were picking the most valuable soldier and sending them off for further training that no one else could know about.

The two that were with Richard Grayson had been incomparable to him, and he was by no means the one best man in the military. In fact, while no one matched his statistics, he'd not been the best out there by military standards. But when he name came up, and Waller was well aware of Bruce Wayne and his little ward, she began to dig too deeply. Within several weeks and some well-placed researched, Waller found Nightwing. All other candidates were shot down, except for the best two that Waller could find to fit the idea of what she originally wanted. Richard came, unsurprisingly, as his loyalty was boundless, and soon the program came into action.

It was easy, if not tiring however, and soon Richard began to feel the repercussions of their afternoon escapades. His food, laced with various mind-numbing toxins, provided a way to clear his mind of unnecessary information. Nightwing and Batman were of course almost immediately cleared (though, his mind and will were strong, and various bits and sections remained) but his fighting skills and acrobatic knowledge from his childhood were saved and re-placed after the complete wipe.

Slade, who had not been in Waller's original plan at all, had come across information while breaking into an office of a supporter of Waller's. He'd hacked the computer, found the files, and with blackmail asked to be placed on the team and if not, he would release the information onto the internet. Waller had no choice. In the end, Slade had been a valuable member to Waller's team. He trained, controlled, and even fathered (in his own special way) the young man who, after his transformation from Private Richard Grayson to Renegade the Assassin, was left with nothing but a burning instinct to complete his mission and a very passionate case of anger.

The timing of such things could not have been better.

By the time of Renegade's appearance, Peter the Biter had begun winning the war, winning territory. He spent time training with Deathstroke, Slade, before receiving a mission status from the French Man in Washington D.C. After that, Waller demanded that Renegade wait and move around the country gaining sources and assets to help him when he returned from Russia. Infiltrating Biter's people would be easy— he was too confident.

Several months after Renegade had left, he returned.

He was ready to fight Biter. Regrettably, Renegade told her, he had tried to recruit Red Hood. He needed to lie low, and finally completing his mission would allow him to do so. His little assembly of frightened peoples would wait for his return. He would end the war… finally.

Waller agreed.

But the League did not know this. They did not make the connection between Waller and Renegade and Dick Grayson's appearance. While Batman had his suspicions, Renegade was a separate problem from Waller. Renegade was a man who, in the midst of war, was causing chaos for the sake of chaos. They did not know that, in 3 days, 4 hours, 15 minutes, and 8 seconds, the system files that Robin had acquired would be hacked one by one, leading them to find Waller's plans and information of one Richard Grayson turned Assassin. They did not know it would be that easy. They did not know that all of their problems stemmed from an angry, power-hungry, confident Government official, or a mission hand off in the DMV, which they had the clue— David Morrison Vattox had been dropped off right into their hands, a file of a French official who really knew nothing. The League and the Batfamily did not know that at that very moment, an Assassin was heading out to California to leave on a private military jet from a remote sect of the mountains to head to Russia.

They did not know that they entire war, the War of the Biter, was planned.

_**To be continued… **_


End file.
